When I was growing up, garbage collection day was one of the best days of the week. I would hear the truck before I saw it, and that was my cue to go to our front door or front window and wait for it to appear. With a screech of its brakes, this large, loud truck would pull up in front of our house and our garbage would disappear into the back of the truck. The driver would push a button and the truck would shake and growl while the garbage squealed as it was compacted alongside the trash of our neighbors. I was fascinated by the whole process and I looked forward to garbage collection day every week.

Fast forward to today, and I get to relive this once fascinating experience all over again through the eyes of my daughter. Every other week, that familiar sound announces the recycling truck is lumbering down our street. And just like when I was a kid, the girl exclaims, “recycling truck!” and we both scramble to the front door and await its appearance. With a huff, the brightly colored truck stops in front of our house and the driver jumps out to collect the recycling. A “whoa” escapes the mouth of my girl as we both stand there with huge smiles on our faces. The whole process lasts seconds but it feels like it stretches for minutes, a brief moment when the world shrinks to just her and I. While I wish the moment would last for infinity, the truck is hungry and is eager to get on with its breakfast. The driver pauses to wave at us before hopping into the truck to repeat the process over and over again. We shuffle back into the house but not before looking one more time over our shoulder as the recycling truck disappears around the corner. Fourteen days until the recycling truck comes again, not that we’re counting.

lifeb | fthe girl, dadlife