At seventy-three, retired and in a wheelchair, I’ve learned that peace is something you cultivate slowly—and fiercely protect. My sanctuary is a small, tidy yard, framed by two young maples and guarded by evergreens, with a garden that gives rhythm and purpose to each day.
Every morning, snow is brushed from the branches, the path salted just right, and the bird feeder filled before the finches arrive. This is my space, my calm. So when trash began appearing along the edges of my property, it didn’t feel accidental—it felt like a line had been crossed.
At first, it was easy to ignore: a bag here, a can there. I cleaned up without complaint. But the pattern became clear once my new neighbor moved in. Litter always appeared near her fence, usually after loud evenings, as if my yard were her personal dumping ground.
The final straw came after a heavy snowfall—an entire trash bin emptied beneath my young trees, food waste and wrappers scattered everywhere, with fresh footprints leading straight from her gate.
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