Page 28 of Homestead

I feel like crying again as I trudge back to the house. Nothing to do about it now. I just have to hope tonight isn’t too cold.

Jimmy is settled on the edge of the deck with his fishing pole.

I always loved fishing with Grandpa. I’d love to be able to sit around and fish this afternoon.

But I still have the damned kitchen to clean up.

Maybe it won’t take too long.

My hopes are completely dashed when I get inside and look toward the kitchen.

There’s flour scattered all over the floor.

I know I didn’t make that huge a mess earlier, and when I get closer, I see what happened.

I didn’t close the sack of flour well enough and the breeze from the open windows blew the top layer of flour out and spread it all over.

All over.

It’s not just on the floor. It’s on the counter and on the cabinets and even on the table and chairs.

I stand frozen for a moment, looking at the mess. That same swell of exhausted frustration rises and expands in my chest. My throat. Pushes out against my eyes. I wrap my arms around my chest and squeeze, trying to fight the shaking of silent sobs.

I hate this.

I hate all of it.

And I can’t do anything right.

Two months ago, I had a perfectly good life with my grandfather. Now he’s gone. He’s never coming back. All that’s left of him is a newly dug grave in a field nearby. I didn’t even have a rock or a wooden cross to use as a marker.

He was the last of my family, and now I’m living with strangers. They’re not mean. None of them. But they’re not mine.

Not even Jimmy.

He’s out there having a grand time fishing while I’m in here falling apart.

Bastard.

The least he could do was notice.

I swallow down that thought since it’s completely unjust. He asked if anything was wrong, and I told him no. How the hell is he supposed to read my mind?

Instead of holding on to this new flicker of resentment, I push it out of my mind and make myself start to clean up.

It takes a long time. It feels like forever.

My back is killing me, and my knees are aching, and my lungs are burning as I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing the last of the flour off the kitchen floor when Jimmy comes in, carrying a bucket.

“Got some good ones,” he says cheerfully before he sees me in the kitchen. When he does, he jerks to a stop. “What you doin’?”

“Cleaning.”

“Why you cleanin’ the floor? You already did a ton today.”

Nice of him to finally notice. “There was flour everywhere.”

“Flour? What do you mean?”

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