My mother buried her silver in the corner of the backyard where a swing set used to be. She insisted on doing it at night, when the moon was a pale lemon drop in the sky. Luckily, it had rained so the ground was wet. I used a shovel jumbled with all the other junk in the back of the garage. My ex-husband once scraped a dead rabbit off our driveway with it. The rabbit had been hit by a car. It looked temporarily stunned, its eyes two black pebbles staring up at us, sensing trouble. “Leah,” my mother said. “Let me help.” And for a moment I thought she was talking about the rabbit, not the objects spread out on the grass – chafing dishes, candlestick holders, cake plate, spatula, a set of Oneida silverware. I handed her the shovel and she dribbled dirt over the hole I’d made. Her eyes gleamed silver. Silver moonbeams bounced off her tangled grey hair, her mouth a silver gash. We were beyond why and were left with the tangible – solid things made to disappear. “Do you think they’ll rust?” she asked, and the logic of the question flooded me with hope. “Not necessarily,” I said, already picturing how I’d wipe the surfaces with a soft cloth – removing soil, bugs, sadness – polishing and polishing like nothing had happened.