Obsequy
There is a piece of trash in the field. Just a little plastic, really. Maybe the remnant of a potato chip bag. A bag for one. Impossible to tell from this distance, but it’s faded and ripped and stuck in what’s left of the corn stalks. If you dared to get close, you’d probably hear the thing crinkling against itself in the wind. Rustling.
You won’t.
The trash has been there all winter. It’s not going anywhere. It’s the nothing good that happens in February. The cold but not pretty. A bit of snow but not enough to cover the dirt. The furrows frozen solid with some white at the bottom. Treacherous. Not really walkable even if you braved the wind in that open field.
You won’t.
The wind is not so much angry as annoyed. As if it stopped caring what anyone thinks and just blows hard because it feels like it. Pushes a little snow around that graveyard of a cornfield. Careless. You could throw on your coat and walk over there. It would take you about five minutes. Ten if you come back.
You won’t.
The bag wasn’t always empty. Held a few chips, maybe. Held something, anyway. Trash that’s long gone even as the bag holds on. You could help it out. Toss it in the bin where no one would have to look at it again. Give it a proper burial. It would only take a short walk in the cold. Not even long enough to lose all your heat. If you threw your coat on. Put on your hat and gloves. Put one foot in front of the other.
You won’t.
The shorn stalks stand strong against the wind, hold tight the tattered plastic that it might end its journey here, continue to fade and rip until it has disappeared altogether. You could set it free. Stumble across the field, atop the frozen snow. Skirt the drifts as you lose sight of your prize. Pull off your glove to finish the ritual properly. Feel the fated object in your hand. Lay it upon the wind that it might visit the next field over or fall apart upon the journey. You might do this and still return.
You won’t.