A Funeral Pyre Of Sorts

26/02/24

When he left there was a pile of old furniture and junk, sitting in the front garden, looking hideously unsightly, waiting to be taken to the tip.

At that point, it had been sitting there for around three months.

I can’t drive and would struggle to carry it all on my back, not being an elephant.

As with any household task that fell to him, he kept saying that he “needed to do it” but never actually did.

The day he left he told me he’d sort it.

He’s been to the house several times since leaving; every time he’s, unprompted, told me he’ll sort it.

Colour me unsurprised, two months later the pile of shit was still sitting there.

Today it got my mad up.

I don’t want to see that junk every morning when I open my curtains. Not only is it ugly, it’s now an unappreciated reminder of how bloody selfish and unreliable he is. It rubs salt in already open emotional wounds.

The burst of anger that promoted action today was accompanied by a massive dollop of, “I’m damned if I need you to get shit done.” The reality is, even when he was here, 98% of everything ‘responsible’ fell to me anyway.

With my internal dialogue running a steady, vindictive diatribe aimed at him, I went through the pile.

Certain things (old duvet) should never have been in the pile, and were squished straight into the regular bin.

Some items could be broken down, with parts going into recycling bins (eg. glass from picture frames, metal handles and parts from furniture).

Using a hammer, and feet, and fists, to beat down and break up the stuff was very therapeutic.

I appreciated the one or two neighbours who gave me encouraging nods, smiles and comments.

Larger metal items were separated out, and as anticipated, within 20 minutes a couple of guys in a scrap van had scented it, and swooped in to grab their prey.

All safely combustible items were hauled around to the back of the house.

With no small amount of effort I cleared a safe space in the back garden.

Using a wooden bedding chest as a sort of container, I piled everything in, making that satisfying, traditional pointy shape with the planks and shards.

Drawing on childhood memories, from the days we only had real fires in our house, I made some firelighters out of folded newspaper. These were posted into some of the gaps in my wood pile.

Because some of the wood was a little damp, I did something you’re really not supposed to do: I squirted some liquid bio-fuel into the base of the pile.

Then using a very long taper, (because, you know, I don’t want to be the person on the PSA) I gingerly leaned in and set fire to it.

The flames immediately licked up and began a sort of purification process for me.

Oh my, it felt so fucking good.

I considered adding all his remaining possessions to the blaze, but decided against. It’s a bit twatty, and I might regret it later. I’m trying to be ‘bigger than that’ and to not give any ammunition to him.

I did allow myself to throw a few items on, (some shoes, ties and a sweater) and that was enough to make me feel a little “Hah! Fuck You!“.

I think I’m entitled to that.

It feels good that the pile of front garden junk is gone.

It felt good to sit in quiet, non-ruminating contemplation watching the flames leap and fall, dance and crackle.

It felt cathartic, taking back a small amount of control and independence by dealing with it myself instead of continuing to wait for him.

It feels like a stain has been removed.

JP