When I was growing up, my mother had a strict rule: throwing out the trash every evening before my parents came home. Forgetting this chore was inexcusable, as she insisted that the kitchen would become engulfed in the sour stench of leftovers—a smell she attributed to neglect. This non-negotiable rule had no clause for my busy routine or tiring day. There was something about the tone that struck me. It was stern but purposeful. Years later, when I entered adulthood, I realized that perhaps it wasn't just about throwing the trash.
Both my parents worked long hours. Being in the same field of work, they became partners in every sense—balancing work, raising me in a country that wasn't our own but eventually became home, and keeping the household running like a precisely built bridge, perhaps inspired by their daily course of work. Our kitchen was their sacred space. My dad would slice vegetables or meat with the finesse of a craftsman, my mom would stir a pot, and amidst the whistles of the pressure cooker as old as me, they'd confide in each other about the pressures of their task deadlines. Sometimes, it would just be quietness complementing the boiling water, a stark contrast to a possible chaotic day. Despite their separate worlds during the day, the kitchen was where they united, perhaps explaining why she was insistent on clearing away the worries and remnants of the previous day.
There's something symbolic about trash—letting go of what we no longer need and, more importantly, what no longer needs us. My mom used to say, “You need to throw it away before it consumes your space”. And in a way, that is life too. How often do we cling to things—grudges, fears, past mistakes—holding on just a bit too long until they begin to taint our present? Throwing out the trash wasn't just a chore; it was a lesson in knowing when to take action and when to let go. Though the perfect moment might elude us as it flits by, we can unmistakably feel the pang of it slipping past us.
Fast forward to adulthood, to my rented flat, where the evenings are much quieter. My flatmate and I, busy with work and life, often forget the little things—like looking after ourselves and, most importantly, throwing out the trash. More than once, we've come home to that familiar smell, both of us looking sheepish, reminded of the routines we've neglected. It's funny how life circles back. The simple task that my mom enforced with such rigidity now feels like a lifeline back to that warm kitchen, the clatter of pots, and the hum of my parents' quiet chatter. In such moments, I am back home in that small kitchen with that bright 20W tube light, realizing how my parents taught me not just how to take care of a home but how to take care of life.