Barbara herself was just as put together.
She wore silk scarves, neat slacks, and lipstick to collect the mail.
She waved whenever she saw us, but we had never moved past polite conversation.
Then the trash bags started appearing.
Every morning around seven, Barbara came through her front door in slippers and a pink robe, dragging a huge black contractor bag behind her.
A garbage truck collected them.
At first, I assumed she had hired a junk-removal company for a renovation.
But no workers came, no paint cans appeared, and no furniture was delivered.
Still, each morning, another bag waited by the curb.
The truck arrived around eight, took whatever she left, and drove away.
After a week, my wife, Anna, mentioned it over breakfast.
