Disposal

When my parents finally began packing, B sought to expedite the moving process. Tolerating my mother’s hoarder-like nostalgia for only so long, B began to enact silent reform. When my mother exaggerated the utility value of a clearly disposable item to avoid throwing it out, B would offer to store it for us at her own home. Winking to Libby, she reverently loaded the old aquarium, stool, or wicker basket into her car and drove away, out of sight, to the dumpster for proper unloading of the junk. Mother shielded from the disposal, useless items landfill-bound, it was a win-win.