d； off to bigger and better things。 Do be a dear and take care of this piffle。 ”
I am a plague of locusts emptying the closet。 Two piles grow to clumsy heights：one for Goodwill； the other trash。
There are more shoes； stuffed animals large and small； knick…knacks； felt pennants； posters； hair bands； and pink foam rollers。 The job grows larger the longer I am at it。 How can one girl collect so much in only twenty years？
It’s obvious she doesn’t care about me； her father； our home； or anything we’ve provided。 We are the flotsam and jetsam； the detritus of childhood。
I stuff garbage bags until the plastic strains。 I haul them down the stairs two bags at a time。 Donations to Goodwill go into the trunk of my car； trash goes to the curb。 Sweat and sore shoulders fuel my irritation4。 My husband has left the house； perhaps to avoid the same fight I wish to avoid。
She left the bed rumpled； the forter on the floor； the sheets in a tangle。 I strip off the forter； blanket； sheets； mattress pad； and pillows。 Once she starts feeding quarters into Laundromat machines； she’ll appreciate the years of clean clothes I’ve provided for free。
I turn the mattress。 A large manila envelope is marked “DO NOT THROW AWAY。” I open it。 More papers。 I dump the contents onto the floor。 There are old photographs； letters； greeting cards； and notes filled with sappy sentiments； bad puns； and silly nicknames。 There are ics clipped from newspapers and book reviews。 Every single item had passed from my hand to hers。
“DO NOT THROW AWAY。 ”
Darned kid knows me too welt。
I read over a lifetime of inside jokes and shared sentiments。 Maybe the pickup wasn’t such a bad idea； after all。 Maybe it helps her to feel less small in a bi