I won. Hallelujah. I had the dumpster delivered to our farmhouse yesterday. Mother finally agreed. For nine months she had been staying at the house alone. Dad just couldn’t find the right words to persuade her to move to Florida with him. And Dad, he couldn’t stay here, not with Tommy dead, blown up by a roadside bomb in Baghdad ‘til there was not a single piece left of him to come home for burial. But I have finished my mourning, and it’s time that Mother let Tommy go. This morning I drove up the long driveway in my Mercedes convertible. Hurray for another good year in real estate. Instead of being offended at the peeling paint on the white clapboards of our 1920s farmhouse or being annoyed by the sagging steps leading up to the front porch, I looked victoriously at the shiny green, metallic dumpster parked in front of the garage. My spirit of victory continued as I exited the car, pausing to exchange my high heels for rubber-soled shoes. I walked past the twin American flags fluttering on the flag poles. It had taken two years for Mother to accept Tommy’s death and to raise his flag next to her father’s. My grandfather died in Germany five weeks before the end of World War II. Mother had finally agreed to let Vivian and me come help her empty the clutter in the basement, clean out the storage shed, start the process of downsizing the accumulation of several generations of family living here, and pack up Tommy’s room. Next week will be time enough to bring up again the idea of moving, if not to Florida then maybe to a condominium in town. Mother’s back was to me as I entered the kitchen. She stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing tomatoes and lettuce from her garden. Over her shoulder, I looked out the window at the tire swing that Dad had hung when I was ten. One sweltering summer afternoon, Daniel and I had been pushing our baby brother, Tommy. We twisted him around and around, and then as the tire swung in erratic circles, we shoved it higher and higher. When his little hands couldn’t grip the coarse rope anymore, he tumbled off the tire. No concussion, but his two front teeth got knocked out. We searched a long time before we finally found both baby teeth in the long grass. We were determined that the tooth fairy would pay Tommy his full share. “Mother, I’m here. Let’s get started.” “Hello, Stella. I’ve got some fresh ice tea in the refrigerator. Why don’t you get the lemon slices out and pour us some tea?” I sighed. I had been hoping she wouldn’t use these delaying tactics. But I bit my lower lip, a habit Mother had failed to discourage, and headed to the china cabinet in the dining room. I knew Mother would insist on using the crystal glasses that had been a wedding present from her Aunt Florence. She didn’t mind the incongruity of sipping tea in crystal glasses while sitting on the porch swing. Dirt was clogged under her broken finger nails, and she was dressed in torn overalls and a faded t-shirt from Tommy’s tennis-playing days. Itching to get moving and start sorting, tossing, and packing, I forced myself to sit next to Mother and sway in the wooden seat that hung from the porch ceiling on rusted chains. I inhaled the fresh breeze and watched two baby rabbits jump over each other and play tag among the dandelions. Past the lawn that was weeks overdue to be mowed was the apple orchard. Vivian and Daniel had been in charge of picking the apples and selling them at our small farm stand, while Tommy and I were responsible for collecting eggs and fresh vegetables to sell. Tommy had this theory that we should add two worms in each hole we dug in the garden for pumpkin seeds. His theory paid off. Every year some of our giant pumpkins were chosen to decorate the high school gym for the Harvest Dance. During winter vacation, we made pine cone wreaths and sold Christmas trees to some of the townies who were too lazy to cut their own. “Shall we begin?” Mother caught me off guard. I was just wondering how to nudge her into action. I followed her into the kitchen and waited while she washed the crystal glasses in hot, soapy water, rinsed them, and then handed them to me to dry and put away. As always, the slate-colored linoleum floor was swept and mopped. I had already gone to Melinda Patterson’s kitchen shop and discussed with her several different tile floors that would update the kitchen while keeping the rural flavor of the farmhouse. But it wasn’t the right time to show Mother my ideas about remodeling the floor and counters. New cabinets were a must. The kitchen hadn’t been updated since the 60s, but Mother had always lovingly kept it clean and fresh-smelling. She had parceled out the remaining chores to us over the years. Daniel chopped the wood for the wood-burning stove and cleaned the bathrooms, Tommy mowed and did the dishes, and Vivian did most of the shopping and cooking. I vacuumed and dusted, jobs I pretended to hate but didn’t. Keeping the house clean suited me. Mother’s domain was the kitchen and the laundry. Every day she swept and mopped the floor, and three times a week she used Murphy’s Oil Soap on the cupboard doors. Baking days were Monday and Friday while laundry days were Tuesday and Saturday. ASsa youngster, I had loved running through the sheets and towels flapping and snapping on the clotheslines. Clean sheets should smell of sunshine and pine trees and fresh cut grass. Mother thrust a push broom, a box of heavy-duty trash bags, and several large, empty boxes into my arms and set out through the mudroom to the shed. I followed. When I saw the cobwebs, dirt-caked windows, mouse poop, and general clutter of the shed, I envied the practical clothes Mother was wearing as well as the bandana she had tucked her long hair inside. Why had I felt it necessary to wear my new blouse and blue Capris? “Be right back, Mother,” I said as she started sweeping out several seasons of dirt and leaves that had blown in over the fall. “I have to get the wheelbarrow from the garage.” When I returned, I was wearing one of Tommy’s black t-shirts and a pair of his jeans. I had to roll them up and leave the zipper undone. Mother didn’t comment about the extra pounds I never seemed able to lose. Two hours later, the shed was fairly empty except for the hoses we had coiled and the shovels and rakes we hung on nails. We had carted out rusty garden tools, ripped up bushel baskets, silly contraptions that Vivian and Daniel had made the year they both took wood shop, and a bunch of junk that had accumulated and been stored there. While Mother pushed a defunct lawnmower out to park next to the dumpster, I rolled out a snow blower. It hadn’t worked since I was in high school, more than twelve years ago. That was the year Dad started paying our neighbor to plow the driveway whenever there was more than three inches of snow. One snowstorm we had twenty-eight inches of snow, and school was cancelled for three days. It was one of the few times that Dad didn’t bother driving to town to open his auto repair shop, and Mother cancelled all her housecleaning jobs. Carl pushed huge mounds of snow to either side of the driveway. The snow fort we built was huge, at least seven feet high. Vivian and Daniel built a turret on the top of their fort closest to the porch. Tommy and I made a catapult, which was really a board with a large bowl duct-taped to it. We flung snow balls we had hardened in the freezer. Our icy cannon balls hardly made a dent in their fortress. While we pelted each other with snowballs, Mother and Dad had packed a toboggan run down our driveway, across the road, and down the steep ravine. They challenged the four of us to races. I don’t think they won any of them. In one race, Tommy, gripping the handles of his flying saucer, flew past Vivian and me on our Flexible Flyer sled. On another run, Vivian, Mother, Dad, and I sat on the toboggan, and we wrapped our arms around the legs of the boys who stood on the sides of the toboggan, their arms locked together over our heads. After a hilarious ride, we all tumbled into snowdrifts. Later, we dried out by the wood-burning stove, drank scalding hot chocolate, and munched on popcorn. As Mother handed me the last of the rusted tools, a bike with a bent frame and two ripped tires, I tossed them all into the dumpster. I hadn’t ridden a bike in more than ten years. Bike rides to M & M’s for homemade ice cream and to the town library had filled many summer afternoons. I followed Mother into the house where we scrubbed away the grime, sweat and cobwebs that clung to our hands and more bothersome, the back of my neck. I was opening the door to the basement when Mother suggested, “Let’s tackle Tommy’s room before it gets too hot. The basement will still be cool this afternoon.” “Right. That’s a good plan.” I trailed after Mother up the carpeted stairway and down the hallway that smelled of waxed floors and rose petals. Mother always arranged fresh roses in vases on her bureau and on a small oak table by the hall window. Outside Tommy’s room were more empty boxes and his footlocker that had been returned from Baghdad after a roadside bomb blew up the Humvee that Tommy was driving. God I hated that war in Iraq. So many dead, so many wounded, so many families with a hole that will never be filled. Tommy should be working at Gus’s furniture shop or attending college. The footlocker was open, empty, and smelled like Lysol. I wondered what had happened to Tommy’s uniforms and all his gear. Several laundry bags and some old suitcases were piled next to his footlocker. Mother must have lugged all this stuff down from the attic before I got here. She picked up two boxes and entered Tommy’s room. I followed, empty-handed. “Be sure to tell me, Stella, anything you want to keep or that you think Vivian or Daniel might like. I thought we could pack up his books and give them to the library.” I nodded. I picked up Tommy’s flute case and sat on his neatly made bed. As I caressed the silver flute that Tommy had played in band for several years during middle school, I said, “Maybe we should keep Tommy’s flute. You never know, but one of us might have kids with musical talent.” “Good idea, dear.” How odd that Tommy had joined the army and learned to make a wrinkle-free bed and press his own clothes. During high school, Tommy had barely managed to yank his bedspread over rumbled sheets and blankets before rushing downstairs to catch the 6:20 school bus. His room had always looked like a bomb had exploded in it. How can I even think that? I didn’t mean it. I meant it was your typical teenage boy’s room with dirty clothes piled on the floor, and tennis rackets and his never-ending supply of faded green tennis balls stuffed under his bed. The top of his desk had been almost impossible to spot beneath the model planes he was always building to sell at Burt’s Hobby Shop. His open physics and calculus texts were stacked on the desk while sheets with scribbled math problems lay in crumbled heaps on the floor around his chair. One at a time, dusting each one carefully, Mother began to pack the biographies of tennis greats. “Why don’t you pack his tennis trophies, Stella? I’ve been thinking we should mail some of them to your father. Maybe the athletic department might like to display his state championship trophies. What do you think?” “Mother, could we break for lunch? I was thinking that we could take a picnic to the pond. I’ve got a cooler in the car. I bought some tuna salad sandwiches from Hanson’s Deli. I got some of the home-brewed root beer that you like.” Mother looked up at me from where she knelt, packing books. “Yes, sweetheart. I understand. We can do this later. We’ll bring some peaches that I canned last summer.” An hour later, Vivian, whom I had called on my cell, joined us by the pond, where we were sitting on the plaid blanket that had three burn holes from one of our camping fires. All of us had spent a zillion lazy summer afternoons by this pond under the weeping willow tree, jumping off the rope swing or fishing for perch and those horribly ugly catfish. Tommy never tired of using his net to catch big old bullfrogs or collect tadpoles to raise on a diet of lettuce and freshly killed flies. “I checked the dumpster and the house,” Vivian commented. “I thought you would have made more progress by now.” As usual, Vivian was cheery and ready to roll up her sleeves and work. “That dumpster was a real brainstorm, Stella. I never would have thought to get one. It’ll be easy and convenient to throw out lots of stuff.” “That was the plan,” I responded but didn’t extend my hand to her as she stood, waiting to help me to my feet. “We better get a move on,” Vivian urged. “Let’s get started on the basement since it’s just too hot to work upstairs now,” Mother suggested. “Okay, Mother, as soon as I finish these peaches and my root beer.” Mother and Vivian headed up the pasture toward the dumpster. Its huge mouth stood open to swallow our childhood. Why were they in such a hurry? How could they expect me to toss fragmented memories of Tommy into it? As I stood unassisted, I scooped up a flat, skinny rock, which I flicked across the pond’s surface. It skipped nineteen times, three short of Tommy’s record. The surface rippled in expanding spirals. The bullfrogs croaked their summer song. I picked up another stone, its smooth surface warming my hand. It flew out of my hand, bouncing across the surface of the pond. Sitting down, I removed my shoes and waded into the water, the warm mud squishing between my toes. Just out of reach was a large, green frog. If I moved slowly, I could cup my hands around him, feel his sides pulsing before I let him go. I took my time.