Obviously. So I slough off the warning and throw away the bag that is not a toy.
But the words bother me. I return immediately to the kitchen trash can and wipe away the ketchup from the little plastic bag.
WARNING: THIS BAG IS NOT A TOY.
It makes sense. People sue anybody these days over anything to make a buck. A hot coffee burn. Slipping on a wet floor. Or suffocating in a plastic bag. I get the disclaimer. Even still, something itches me. I decide to forget about it.
Several days later, a brief lull at the office resurrects the bother. I spot a plastic bag, this one holding a computer power cord, albeit no warning is printed on it.
When I arrive home that evening I hunt down the bag with the “NOT A TOY” imprint. It’s nowhere to be found. I cross the border into ridiculous by weeding through a trash bag full of sticky newspapers, soiled Kleenexes, and the smell of meatloaf and sour mayonnaise. Where is that flippin’ bag!
I rush to the basement and luckily, thankfully, find it on the table where I’d placed it. I press the bag flat, smoothing the creases toward each corner. The bag, and its message, shimmer beneath the ceiling lights. I laugh at this crazy episode, but I’m catching on.
Life is so obvious sometimes that we miss it. We disregard it. We toss aside the warnings meant to preserve the very life we are throwing away. We ignore our bodies cries for healthier choices. We suppress our anxiety and deny our need for help. We neglect the eternity of our souls by avoiding the subject altogether. We see, we hear, we touch it even, but we keep missing it.
I’m starting to like this bag. I’m recognizing, again, as when I first found it, that I don’t need the silly warning to tell me it’s not a toy. But I think I’ll keep the bag anyway.