Photo by Rebecca Milton.

There is a bag – a little white bag, plastic, the sort you get in a corner shop –
that has been caught in the tree in our front garden for the past week and a half.
One of the things I hate most about the road we live on is how much of a mess people leave it.
There’s no litter picking here, and people fly tip, so you mostly end up with rubbish everywhere.
I suppose that’s how this bag, which is empty, got blown up into the tree.
Which wouldn’t be so bad, except it’s the first thing I see when I look out the office window.
So when it first got caught up there – too high to be pulled down, even with a broom – I got angry.
This is my garden! My house! Your carelessness, whoever you are, has made it an eyesore.
Then it got windy. Really windy. So windy they personified the wind, gave it a name.
Gareth tore through our street and made that poor tree bend until it looked like it was going to break.
And the bag? Well, it’s still there. Still hanging. Still clinging on where its tiny handles have knotted up.
It’s still ugly and it still makes my beautiful tree look a mess. But somehow, bit by bit,
I think that little white bag might just be growing on me. After all, it’s almost as stubborn as I am.

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