I live in an old house, older than Napoleon, older than most nations that think they’re eternal. Two and a half centuries of cracked wood, stone walls, and forgotten tenants. It’s seen revolutions, wars, famines, but now it’s just me, a few quiet souls, and time passing slowly.
Then half a year ago, a man from the old Yugoslavia moved in upstairs. He brought the Balkans with him: clutter, noise, chaos. He left things lying around the hall, washed his laundry when he pleased, spread himself across the house as if it were a frontier. It annoyed me.
Not because of what he did, but because it was what I do myself. My own things have crept across every corner like ivy, but I had convinced myself it was different. Mine was order, his was mess.
The irritation festered until one day he left a garbage bag at the back of the house. One day, then two, then a week. I watched it like a wound that wouldn’t close.
Every time I walked past it, my anger grew. It became a symbol of carelessness, of intrusion, of disrespect. His garbage was a mirror of his soul, I told myself.
Today, coming back from a run, I finally looked close. The bag was mine.