I’m 73, in a wheelchair, and my small yard is my whole world. When my new neighbor started throwing trash into it and laughed when I asked her to stop, I decided I’d deal with it in my own way.
People think the chair shrinks my life, but it doesn’t—it just centers everything around my yard. I care for my trees, garden, and birds every day, even in winter. That space is my peace, my “I’m still here.”
Then the trash started: cans, bags, napkins, cigarette butts—always from the neighbor’s side. A young woman in her late twenties lived there, always loud, rude, and ignoring me completely. I kept cleaning it up, not out of fear, but because I didn’t want unnecessary conflict.
After a heavy snowfall one night, my yard turned completely white and untouched again.