About washing dishes # writing exercise

The house is empty on a perfect Spring day and it shouldn't be. I can hear the television set on in the background, but when I look in the den, I find only my father's 32 ounce tumbler, filled to the brim with rock solid ice cubes and iced-tea, but no Dad in his chair.

The kitchen, where I should find my mom making dinner appears to be abandoned in the middle of preparing a dinner. A skillet pushed to the side, no apron hanging on its hook. The breakfast dishes from me and my brother have been pushed a side, a reminder that we haven't done our chores.

I drop my backpack and scrambled back to the front door, peering out on the driveway and across the street, I can hear neighborhood noises that cause no alarm. I see all the things I should see; my parent's cars parked in their spots, my brother's car parked on the street, but no family anywhere.

My sentence is clear. I cry my way back to the kitchen, I pull out the red step stool, so I can reach the sink. I begin doing the breakfast dishes and look out the window, up and in the direction of sunlight and heaven.  I know, as any eight year-old who's been to Sunday school knows, the Rapture has happened. All the good people; my parents, my brother, the neighbors whose voices I couldn't hear, they've all gone to Heaven.

I make up my mind to be very, very good. And I know one day, I will join them.

I cry. I wash and rise each dish carefully. As I finish the last dish, as my mother comes in the front door with my dad,
laughing. Laughing about what the neighbor had to show them. Some time later, Harold, my brother returns. He got a ride from the Diary Queen, hanging out with his girlfriend.

My mom laughs a thanks for doing the dishes as I gather my backpack and walk slowly and carefully to my room.