Someone left an empty milk bottle on the wall outside their house. It was just like the ones we had when I was ten. Ridged bottom, thick glass, impossible for me to smash when filled with frozen milk, raised letters and a bit of Braille. I almost took it home. I kept a few Nice Boxes from last Christmas. I put them on a shelf above the dining table. I bet I will just move them round and round the dusty-greasy tops of the kitchen cupboards, never using them for anything at all. I don’t really think I need those boxes and I’m glad I left that bottle where it stood; keeping things around just in case is a waste. My dad used to do the same thing with food – pots of grease and left-overs moulding in the fridge – and with people – hanging on till they rotted away – before he murdered three* men we all loved and wound up locked up for five thousand days.
*an actual violent murder of his own father, and two metaphorical “murders”: 1. Of him/his person/character (from my PoV) and, 2. Of me (of the person I’d been till then ).