At work they call me "recycling girl,", which, in the history of nicknames, is not very imaginative, but I take what I can get. Today I'm taking the tiny plastic box binder clips come in and painting it with Wite-Out flowers. Today is my last cigarette.

            I had my first cigarette in Atlantic City with my mother-in-law when I was seventeen. Back then good Catholic girls got married at seventeen, but Trudy didn't seem too interested in how good I was.

"Live a little," she said as she lit a Virginia Slim and passed it to me. Then she waved down the waiter and ordered me a Long Island Iced Tea. I'd never had a drink before either. "You'll need it to deal with that son of a bitch," she said, referencing her son, unaware or just unconcerned that the insult wasn't very favorable to her. Our marriage lasted eight miserable years.

 

            "Don't throw that away," I said to Ed in Accounting as he approached the paper recycling bin with a stack of memos he'd copied sideways. I could use the backs for scrap paper, and it was yellow, which would make for nice decorative leaves in the fall.

            "The paper will disintegrate by fall," Ed said.

            "Just give it to me."

 

            Trudy loved to steal. I told myself it was a quirk, a leftover coping mechanism from the Depression, except I knew Trudy was born after the Depression. When they boys were little, we'd take them to McDonald's every weekend. Trudy would slide the sugar bowl in front of her, carefully remove one pink Sweet N' Low packet, and drop it into her purse.

            "Trudy," I hissed in a loud whisper. The boys were busy playing with their Happy Meal toys – two plastic cars with red-haired Ronald driving – but what if they saw her? How could I explain that their Grandma stole sugar substitute?

            "Relax," Trudy said as she swiped two more packets. "A place like this has plenty of Sweet N' Low." Then she slid the small ceramic bowl to the edge of the table and dropped it into her purse as well.

            It was around then, when the boys were little, that the word "divorce" first came up, but we didn't actually split up until years later. I was so used to living with that son of a bitch I figured I could stand it until the kids went to college. We had a big house, a pool, and nice silverware, and I hate to throw things away.

 

            At work I make big pink Post-It Note hearts for Valentine's Day. On Flag Day I turn the bulletin board into a giant American flag using paper from the recycling bin and thumbtacks for stars. On July fourth I turn shredded memos into colorful fireworks, hanging off the edge of my cubicle like weeping willow trees. For Halloween I take empty Snapple bottles out of the garbage, peel off the labels, and draw on scary faces with a Sharpie. For Christmas I go overboard, just like everyone else, except that my string of lights is made of burnt popcorn Linda in Marketing threw out at lunch.

            Sarah says it's the mother in me that wants to turn every little thing into arts and crafts time. Yann says I'm an extreme version of a pack rat. Bruce once asked me if I grew up in horrible poverty, honing my dumpster-diving skills as a child. But it's nothing like that. I just hate to throw things away.

            My ex-husband was wasteful. Whether it was money into bad investments or leftover Chinese food into the trash, everything he touched turned into garbage. Then there was the day I reached into the trash can to take out some perfectly good egg foo young and came up with a handful of motel room receipts instead.

            "You know what his problem is?" Trudy would tell me every time a new piece of evidence surfaced. "He was spoiled too much as a child."

            I'd reach across the table to help myself to her bottle of Schnapps, or swipe a cigarette from her pack "You're his mother," I would say.

            She'd nod sadly. "And wasn't that a bitch to endure."

            Christmas came and went, and right around the time my popcorn decoration turned rancid, I realized I'd gone a year without smoking. I hadn't told anyone at work the day I quit, and I'd always hidden it from the boys, so there was no one to celebrate with. I thought I at least had to reward myself, maybe with a shopping trip, a new coat, or a cigarette.

            A cigarette sounded really good.

            That day Mary from Reception threw out a wilted bouquet of roses, and though they smelled odd, I just had to rescue them. I would feel like a fraud putting roses on my desk, and everyone would ask if I had a boyfriend, so I stashed them in the trunk of my car at lunch.

            After work, I went to a gas station and bought a pack of Menthol cigarettes. Then I drove the long way home, past the dairy farm and the apple orchard, until I found myself at the cemetery.

            The grass was wet, and I nearly lost my heels trudging up the hill to Trudy's grave. I cleared some dead weeds from around the headstone and then laid the dying roses in front of it. After a moment's consideration, I left the unopened pack of cigarettes there as well.

            I remembered that night in Atlantic City, when I was so nervous to be out with my new mother-in-law, not to mention being at a casino for the first time in my life. I fingered the bottom of my glass, the napkin on my lap, and the fork in front of me. The drink was starting to make my vision blurry, and the silence was too long for me to bear.

            I looked up at Trudy. "The silverware here is lovely."    

            Trudy took a drag off her cigarette, exhaled through her nose, and leaned across the table, her eyes sparkling in the smoke.

            "Want it?"