Friday Fiction: 200 Word Challenge

Friday Fiction: 200 Word Challenge

Friday Fiction: 200 Word Challenge

A quote: “Sometimes as a parent, you have to give your child that doesn’t do his or her chores some tough love and withhold the allowance.” ~~ Ami Bera

I’ll start with a story …

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To be honest, as a child I really resented washing dishes.

We had a dishwasher at home, but when I was sent to spend a month of summer vacation at my grandparents’ it was nothing but a sink of hot, soapy water, a scrub brush, and me.

They lived a few states away, on a farm that had been in the family for several generations. They might be the last since Dad had taken up a briefcase rather than a tractor and I wasn’t feeling too fond of the life either.

But a couple of summers and I got into the routine – clear table, wash, dry, put away, then join them on the porch for iced tea.

It changed some the first summer after grandma passed. Grandpa joined me in the kitchen, to dry and put away. Awkward at first, but grandpa started sharing stories of growing up, the world back then, and time flew.

College brought the month at the farm to stop.

I was struggling my second year, classes felt empty, and I broke up with my girlfriend. I must have sounded miserable on the phone because a few days after I talked with him, I opened the door to find grandpa.

He cooked dinner for me, washing up the dishes later (including the pile I’d left, too wallowing in self-pity to bother), making iced tea and sitting on the couch, in the quiet, waiting for me to talk.

And I did.

It was everything I needed. I hugged him when he left, “Thanks, grandpa. I love you.”

“Love you, too, boy.”

It was just a couple of months later mom called to say grandpa had passed away in his sleep.

After the funeral, I stood on the porch where I spent so many summer evenings after the dishes were done. I listened to the windsong of the trees and the corn and remembered not just the dish washing, but the love.

And decided the farm would have at least one more generation in the family.

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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license.

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1 Comment
  • Cameron says:

    I made it to my son’s house the day after the funeral. He was still in disbelief at everything that had happened and I was determined that he would not be alone.

    “I vacuumed the living room,” I said quietly. “Cleaned up the garage as well.” He nodded his thanks and stared into his glass of whiskey.

    Standing up, I said “I’ll take care of the dishes in the sink. Do you-“

    “No!” he said, his face showing alarm.

    “Son. It’s fine. I can clean things up.”

    “Dad, please. Not now. She was cleaning them when…” a shudder hit his body and he leaned forward.
    “If you clean the dishes and put them away, then it’s real. She’s gone and never coming back.” I sat back down and he looked at me in shame. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being foolish.”

    “There is no timeline on grief. If you want to leave them there, then do that. I’ll respect that.”

    It took two weeks. All I know is that one evening, the dishes were put away and he was setting the table.

    “It’s what she was cooking the last time. Care to join me?”

    “Yes. And I’ll clean up in return.”

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