Dropping the V-Bomb

The night is cold; I should have worn gloves. In a plastic grocery bag, I carry packing tape, a disposable camera, and a collage, which reads, "YOUR VAGINA IS WORTH MORE THAN A DOZEN ROSES – judy_blooms at yahoo .com". I registered the email address yesterday, and set up a default vacation responder to read, "Chicago for V-day." Reaching the mailboxes, I hold my cigarette between blue lips, rejoicing to find the "Community News" board empty. I haven’t planned a taping strategy, but I end up covering the whole collage with the clear, wide tape. This way, if the poster board gets torn down, it at least stays in tact. I stand back, admire, snap a picture, and point my feet towards home. I’ll sleep easy tonight.

Noonish, 12 hours later, with my morning diet coke and smoke, I return to see what’s become of my v-bomb. Nearing the place, I can see that the community board is empty. Censorship: I expected as much. "Vagina" seems widely considered a dirty word. But there, curled up, wedged between the wall and the garbage can... there it is. Dirty, tape stuck to itself in places, but still in one piece. I pick it up, spread it out on top of the trash bin. Yes, I think with satisfaction, my vagina is.

I wonder how it ended up there, not in the garbage, but behind it. We’ve had no precipitation. Did it fall due to the cold? Did someone pull it down and leave it there? Who? Male, female? Disgruntled teen, protective parent, paid staff? What was he or she feeling? Anger? Confusion? Shame? My fingers are frozen raw, and the tape is dirtied and will not stick. I leave it, laid flat on the lid of the bin. Let the piece take its course. The wind bites my face, and I long to get back to the warm body of the small dog I call love. This holiday leaves us all out in the cold: we all fall from our original intentions, the declarations we make, prompted by Hallmark cards and candy hearts. Do people even hear them, or is it for ourselves we make them? It all ends up in the trash. Or in close proximity.