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Mike & Antonio

On Wednesdays between 8:40 a.m. and the next half hour, we wait for them.

Wait with our front door cracked to hear the lunge and the lurch and the rarrr rarrr of the garbage truck. Wait for Antonio or Mike to leap from the truck’s side and heft the contents of our wobbly can into the back of theirs.

From our neighbor’s house we hear the gears grind and the brakes halt, and I holler to my boy, “they’re here! The Garbage Guys!” And frantically, barefoot or booted, he grabs the treats from the stairway–bananas one week, caramel corn the next–and runs to put them in Mike or Antonio’s hands.

Mike or Antonio.

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Antonio? Mike?

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And always there is a wave. And a smile. From these two. And a burst of gears as they screech to their next stop.

Wednesday. After Wednesday.

It’s just that this Wednesday when my boy clomped down the driveway in his sister’s boots with the words “Merry Christmas” on his lips, Antonio or Mike said, “wait right here.”

And my boy forgot about saying “Merry Christmas,” and he waited. Waited as Antonio–or Mike–jogged to the driver’s side door and ran back with a Christmas card.

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We did not know their names until Wednesday. Did not know that it was Mike and Antonio pausing each Wednesday to empty our pathetic can. Antonio and Mike to whom we yelled, “Have a great day!”

Nor did we know we would weep at a simple card with a wreath on top.

Signed, Mike & Antonio.

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One Response to “Mike & Antonio”

  1. Carolyn Moore says:

    Stirs me to do better with all the “Mike and Antonios” in my life. Thanks!

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