Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Then my eyes fall upon a photo of a woman and a child hanging on a wall, and a pang hits me, sharp and unexpected. Grandma and my mother. I never met her, never knew her, and now I’m standing in her lonely, stubborn chaos. We could’ve spent weeks here, sorting out this shit, laughing over her weird crap, making it ours. My throat tightens, and I blink hard, shoving the feeling of loss and defeat down.
I should have gotten to know her and not just accepted the status quo of no contact on account of her strained relationship with my mom. My dad turned out to be a total jackass, so she was right, after all. I sigh again, a resolve forming in me never again to just accept the status quo. To try to find the solution in things or the charm in them. Right. No way out now, at least today, so time to find the charm in this situation. I shove at one of the windows with both hands, the frame sticking hard, paint flaking off in little curls that dust my fingers.
It groans like it hasn’t been opened in decades, wood scraping wood. I grit my teeth and push until it gives with a reluctant screech. Cold air rushes in, sharp and damp, slamming into my face. It doesn’t smell of the smog of the city, but carries the scent of earth—rich, loamy—and weeds. It’s bitter and wild, mingling with something faintly sweet I can’t place. I suck it in, my chest expanding. There’s definitely charm here. Holding that positive thought in mind, I walk through the indescribable horror of the clutter and smell in the kitchen. Stoically, ignoring it all, I find the key to the back door, open it and step over the threshold onto the sagging porch. Rotten boards creak under my boots. The yard, and it looks like there is a lot of it, sprawls out in front of me, a tangled mess of green and brown. Right.
I just stand there, letting it hit me.
Sure, it’s overgrown as hell—grass up to my knees, snarled with thistles and nettles that look like they could shred my jeans if I waded in. Bushes hunch along the walled edges, gnarled and choked with tall weeds, their branches clawing at the old bricks like they’re trying to pull the boundary down so they can carry on their relentless march. A rusted wheelbarrow lies tipped over near a crumbling shed, half-buried in the mess, and I spot a lone daffodil in what might’ve been a flowerbed once, now just a graveyard of dead stalks and mud. I stare at the flower. It survived it all and stood proud. And I feel a thrill run through me. I am that flower. I will overcome too. The neglect is overwhelming, but my eyes keep moving, picking out shapes beneath the ruin. There’s potential here—raw, untamed, begging for someone to give a damn.
I step off the porch, gravel crunching underfoot, and wander closer, the chill seeping through my jacket. I can see it already—flowers bursting out, vivid and messy, maybe roses or peonies, their petals spilling over the stones. Wisteria dripping from a trellis I’ll build myself, purple and heavy, swaying in the breeze like something out of a painting. A veggie patch over there, near the shed—tomatoes, zucchini, chilis, and a whole bunch of herbs I could smell on my hands after picking them.
I’ve always wanted that, to dig into dirt and grow my own food, watch it come alive under my care. Back in my overpriced Chicago shoebox? Not a freaking chance—my landlord would probably fine me for a potted basil plant.
Here, though...
I kick at a clump of weeds, the roots stubborn, clinging to the earth, and a flicker of doubt creeps in. This will take work—weeks, months, tools I don’t have, skills I'd have to learn from scratch. My hands aren’t soft, but they’re not calloused either; they’re sales-manager hands, good for typing quotas, not hauling dirt. Still, I picture it—me out here, sweaty and tanned, tearing out the junk, planting seeds, coaxing this disaster into something alive. A garden I could sit in, beer in hand, watching the sun dip behind those rolling hills. My breath catches, a stupid lump rising in my throat. Grandma must’ve stood here once, maybe saw the same thing before it all went to shit. Did she give up, or did it just slip away?
I feel a spark—a hope, faint but stubborn, rooting itself in me. This space is wide open, screaming for a purpose.
A thrill of excitement flows through me as the realization hits home. All of this space is mine! It is not a lease I have to bleed blood and guts for. It belongs to me. And only me.