She walked home looking victorious.
THAT AFTERNOON, ONE BAG TORE OPEN
The garbage truck collected what fit inside my regular bins.
Several of Marlene’s bags remained.
One had split.
A nearly new blanket was sticking out.
I put on gardening gloves.
Opened the bag.
Underneath were:
books,
a vase,
a small lamp,
a wooden box.
None of it looked like garbage.
Then I pulled out a pair of pruning shears.
And stopped.
Yellow tape wrapped around one handle.
Old.
Faded.
My tape.
I had put it there years ago because the rubber grip slipped when wet.
I went into my garage.
Opened the tool drawer.
The pruning shears were gone.
THEY WERE MINE
Marlene had borrowed them once.
I remembered her returning them.
Or at least—
I thought she had.
Somehow they had ended up in her possession again.
While I was trying to understand that, two children stopped near my driveway.
Marlene’s boys.
The younger one stared at everything.
“Hey.”
His brother elbowed him.
“Shut up.”
I turned.
“What?”
The younger boy pointed.
“That’s our garage stuff.”
His older brother’s face changed.
“Come on.”
“What garage stuff?”
“Nothing.”
The younger child ignored him.
“Mom keeps things like that in boxes.”
“Where does she get them?”
He shrugged.
“Different places.”
“What places?”
“People’s houses.”
His brother hissed:
“You’re not supposed to tell!”
I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
“DOES YOUR MOM BUY THESE THINGS?”
The younger boy shook his head.
“She just brings stuff home.”
“And then throws it away?”
“When she gets bored.”
His brother tried dragging him away.
But he continued.
“Mom cleans out the garage.”
“Then she gets rid of stuff.”
I looked at the objects.
The boy added casually:
