MY NEIGHBOR to the east has three hand-painted tombstones in her tiny San Francisco backyard, commemorating the lives of “Clancy, a hen so sweet,” “Flower Dowager, poultry supreme,” and “Dupres, a very fine chicken.” The birds had hopped every day through the hole we cut in the fence that separates my garden from hers and had spent a lot of time bawking outside my office’s glass door. She also had a gravestone for “Chix, an excellent cat.” Now we need a marker for another death in the family: the trampoline.
It appeared one day, 14 years ago, the relaxation therapy of a tenant who, within six months, had moved in and out of the apartment, leaving behind this 12-foot-round specimen of rubber, aluminum, and joy. In the years that…
