"Basura," The Rumpus

At 7 a.m. on Easter morning I have only just remembered that I have not yet cleared the yard of trash—an important task considering that hunting for colored eggs among the strips of white Walmart bags and red Sonic cups would be gross and potentially confusing. My two-year-old might not understand that she is looking for plastic eggs, not plastic lids. I grab gloves and a trash bag and sneak out of the house as my daughters sleep. Squatting in place to peel shredded candy wrappers from the dirt, I unearth a small yogurt cup. I work my way toward the chain link fence that acts as a porous barrier between me and my neighbor. Her yard is littered with garbage and much of it blows through the fence into my yard. The Gatorade containers, Styrofoam take-out boxes, and ginger ale cans suggest that at least some of the trash was chucked over the fence.