Your toothbrush. The bristles on its head gnarled and tangled like your hair in the morning. A nearly squeezed-out tube of your teeth whitening toothpaste (cap off, of course). I poise them in a white frame, shellacked with a brownish-yellow tarnish to match your stained teeth.

“It’s saying that no matter how much we scrub and scrub, nothing will ever return to its original white.”

“It shows the prosaic nature of daily activities.”

“They should have used other color toothpastes as if they were gouache paint.”

“I wonder why they left out the floss.”

Because you haven’t touched a strand since 1997.

Your “First Piss, Fart, Coffee. Then talk.” mug. Coffee stained inside so much that it always looked dirty, even when you supposedly washed it. I place it on a coffee table, on its side. Coffee rings all around it, as well as multiple unused coasters.

“It’s saying we have missed our mark as a country.”

“It shows the struggles we have every morning trying to function as human beings.”

“Tea would have been a more powerful metaphor.” 

“I wonder if it’s about our dependence on drugs such as caffeine.”

You were a jerk before you got your morning coffee fix. And an asshole before you got your evening beer.

A miss-matched pair of your socks. One white with three green stripes on top, and a hole in the toe, as dirt black as the soles of your feet. One grey, with two red stripes on top, and a hole in the heel. I tied them in a knot and tacked them to the wall.

“It’s saying that there’s somebody out there for everybody. We all have a match, no matter how different.”

“It shows that our lives are filled with holes.”

“If they really wanted to think outside the box, they'd have used one nylon.”

“I wonder where the other socks ended up.”

So did I. You never wore a matching pair of socks the entire time I knew you.

Your white briefs. Yellow urine stains in the front. Hint of a brown stain in the back. The fly and waist band stretched out like your gut expanded through the years. A few strands of pubic hair in the crotch. I place this on a pedestal, held up by a wire frame.

“It’s saying that underneath the surface, we’re all disgusting.”

“It shows there is only a thin layer separating us from what a person excretes.”

“They held back on the bodily fluids. They should have gone over-the-top with urine and feces. Where’s the seamen?”

“I wonder if it being on a pedestal means our world worships male genitals.”

I know you worshiped yours.

All the things you left behind, I turned into art. It hangs in a gallery for all the world to see how ugly you are.

And it’s beautiful.

Tom Misuraca studied Writing at Emerson College in his home town of Boston before moving to Los Angeles. Over 120 of his short stories and two novels have been
published. His story, Giving Up The Ghosts, was published in Constellations Journal, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021. His work has recently appeared in Literature Today, The Unconventional Courier and Beyond Queer Words. He is also a multi-award winning playwright with over 150 short plays and 13 full-lengths produced globally. His musical, Geeks!, was produced Off-Broadway in May 2019.