Before moving to the state capitol we lived 75 miles NW of here in a bigger town. Our two sons were young. Still are, relatively speaking.
Buddha was there before they were and now that they've moved out Buddha remains. It's a marble Buddha, given to my husband, made from marble taken from a famous mountain, somewhere outside the U.S. Buddha lived in the dining room, most of the time. He was always there when I was looking for him.
And, look for him I did, because he was a culprit, a jinxer, a trickster, and an oft-declared guilty party. You see he was given a name. He became "Not Me".
It didn't matter who stood in front of the empty box of cereal, with feet covered by the previous contents. That boy did NOT spill/pour them onto the floor. It was Not Me.
A hole could be cut into a chair cushion with a Cub Scout mini-tool, jaggedly shaped like a smile and Not Me would be credited with doing it.
When the garbage disposal coughed up a pair of 4T jockeys the finger of blame was pointed firmly at Not me.
The fire on the carpet in the bedroom, under the bed to assure it wouldn't be found, was Not Me's doing. He got a real scolding when I vacuumed and found it.
Cutting someone else's hair could have been no one but Not Me's doing. Since he had none of his own it was clear he was unhappy that anyone had hair.
Getting into the rhythm of things I realized that the pink shirts, underwear, socks, and tee shirts that came out of the laundry one day were the work of Not Me.