Keep me--it seemed to say—I’m not a cloth—when soiled or worn—to be dumped like this, without a thought. I’m not any rag--it seemed to add—one of those to be amassed in a closet corner, anytime ready to rub a floor tile or a tabletop, or else to be disposed of. Albeit cheap, my fiber is fine and tenacious at the same time, the fabric resulting from it is neat and uniform, perfectly smooth but—if the occasion arises—able to go deep, even to scrape. Yes, I’m an all-purpose rag, a universal cloth, such as you could never find again for all you strive to search for it. So, don’t throw me away--it seemed to reiterate—only because you judge that I’m not doing anybody any good. I may really look like any piece of fabric, but I am not. Nothing easily discarded, lightly renounced, forever lost and thereafter unregretted. Think about it carefully—neither once nor twice but several times—then sleep it off and think again when reawaked. Above all remember—if ditched, there’s no way to have me back, however desperate for me you may then realize you are.
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
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