I’m 73, retired, and in a wheelchair.
People see the chair and think my world shrank.
It didn’t.
That yard is my peace.
My whole world just moved into my yard.
I’ve got two young maples in the front, three fat old evergreens along the side, and a little garden that I fuss over like it’s a firstborn.
Even in winter, I’m out there.
I wrap the trees so the cold doesn’t split them. I brush snow off the evergreens so the branches don’t snap. I salt the path in neat lines. I fill the bird feeder every morning.
The finches and cardinals show up on schedule like they’re punching a clock.
A greasy takeout bag in front of my porch.
That yard is my peace.
My “I’m still here.”
So when the trash started, it felt personal.
At first, it was small.
An empty energy drink can half-buried in the snow near my walk.
A greasy takeout bag in front of my porch.
A few months back, a young woman had moved in there.
A wad of napkins stuck to my shrubs.
I grumbled, picked it up, and told myself some teenager dropped it.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Plastic forks. Crumpled receipts. Cigarette butts.
She was always on speakerphone.
Always in the same general direction: the property line with the rental house next door.
A few months back, a young woman had moved in there.
Late twenties, maybe.
Nice car. Nice clothes. Nice phone.
Not-so-nice attitude.
Not because I was scared.
She was always on speakerphone.
Music blaring. Voice blaring. The kind of person who acts like sidewalks are a stage.
No wave. No “hi.” She’d look past me like I was a lawn ornament.
I still picked up the trash.
Quietly.
By morning, my yard looked like a postcard.
Not because I was scared.
Because I’ve lived a long time, and I know some fights are not worth my blood pressure.
Then one night, we got a heavy snow.
Thick, quiet, perfect.
By morning, my yard looked like a postcard.
Just the contents, loose, spread all over my snow.
Clean, untouched, white.
I rolled out with a travel mug of coffee in my cup holder and a broom across my lap, ready to brush the snow off the evergreens.
I turned the corner toward my maples.
And stopped cold.
Under those two young trees? Someone had dumped an entire trash can.
Rot and sour beer in the clean winter air.
Just the contents, loose, spread all over my snow.
Coffee grounds, wet paper towels, food scraps, sticky wrappers, chicken bones, something dark and slimy I did not investigate.
It splattered up the white tree guards like someone had thrown paint.
The smell hit me.
Rot and sour beer in the clean winter air.
I rolled right to her front door.
I sat there in my chair, heart pounding, looking at my ruined snow and my dirty tree wraps.
I followed the marks in the snow.
There were footprints leading from my neighbor’s side gate, straight to my trees and back.
No room for doubt.
That was the moment my patience died.
She just squinted at me like I’d woken her up.
I rolled right to her front door.
Knocked.
After a minute, the door opened a crack.
She stood there in leggings and a cropped hoodie, hair in a messy bun, phone in her hand.
She didn’t even say hello.
“It’s all over my yard.”
She just squinted at me like I’d woken her up.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Morning,” I said. “I need to talk to you about your trash.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“My what?”
I blinked.
“The trash,” I said, keeping my voice level. “It’s all over my yard. Under my trees.”
She stared at me.
I watched the gears turn.
Then she shrugged.
“So?” she said.
“You can’t just dump—”
I blinked.
“It’s on my property,” I said. “You walked it over. I can see your footprints in the snow.”
She rolled her eyes.
“It’s outside,” she said. “Relax. It’s just trash. Clean it up.”
I clenched my fists.
And she smirked.
“I take care of that yard,” I said. “Those trees are young. You can’t just dump—”
“Oh my God,” she cut in, laughing. “Are you serious? What are you, like, the garden police?”
“It’s my property and I keep it clean.”
She leaned on the doorframe and looked me up and down.
Then her eyes dropped to my wheelchair.
She smiled, sharp.
And she smirked.
“You’re out there every day anyway,” she said. “Rolling around, poking the dirt. You act like your little yard is a full-time job.”
“It is my job,” I said. “It’s how I stay—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she waved her hand. “Look, Grandpa, you’re retired. You’ve got all the time in the world. If my trash bothers you so much, clean it up.”
“You heard me.”
She smiled, sharp.
“What’s so bad about taking out my trash too?”
I actually laughed.
“Come again?” I asked.
“You heard me,” she said. “You’re bored. You’re outside anyway. Just take my trash with yours. Win-win.”
“I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
It wasn’t even just the words. It was how easily she said them.
Like my time, my life, my space meant nothing.
I took a breath.
Then another.
Then I smiled.
Not the nice smile. The “this conversation is now over” smile.
Then I rolled back home.
“Of course,” I said quietly. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
Her smug little grin grew.