© Bruce Goodman 28 April 2015
Let me tell you. Our house has a front door and a back door. The back door is used by tradesmen, and for taking out the trash. The front door is used for visitors; for example when Lady Bastable of the Arts’ Society called she used the front door.
When my parents were married my father carried my mother over the front door threshold. As each baby – all five preceding me – arrived home from the maternity hospital, each entered the family household through the front door.
When I arrived home as a baby it was raining. My father parked the car at the back of the house and my mother rushed in through the back door with me cradled in her arms. The backdoor! The tradesman’s entrance! The door they use to take out the trash!
My brothers and sisters have all done well for themselves. They’re well-healed; rich even. They married well. They have fulfilling jobs and beautiful children.
Me? I’m a load of shit; the household waste; a tradesman coming to fix the blockage in the toilet bowl; backdoor trash.
If only it hadn’t rained.