Things have taken a dark and ominous turn here, and there is a palpable chill in the air. We feared this day would come, despite our best efforts. Accommodations for weight and space were made and the math was impeccable. We planned to return to the US in four months, in April, and allocations were made beforehand in anticipation.
But then came the corona virus and April became May, May became June, and now June has become July. Last night it all came home to roost. There was a baleful cry from the kitchen, “OH NO!”
I feared the worst but I knew, and when I entered the kitchen my worst fears were confirmed.
She stood there, Beloved Wife, a pathetic sight; a look of despair and, I am certain, tears in her eyes, holding aloft a single, lonely Black Beauty, she was barely able to say the words.
“IT’S THE LAST ONE!”
Indeed it was; the last of the kick-butt ‘murican Hefty trash bags. We are now left to an uncertain future, uncertain when we can return to the US, and doomed to live that time with nothing but French garbage bags.
Film at 11.