Chapter 8
“If you wait one more day to sweep, all the needles will have fallen off that tree and you won’t have to do it twice,” Etta tells me as she walks into the living room.
It’s Christmas Eve, two weeks since Job and I brought the now almost-barren tree home. I’ve swept around and underneath it every day since. And Etta has told me every day not to sweep until all the needles fall off or we remove the tree, whichever comes first.
“The floor needed sweeping anyway,” I say, as I’ve said every day.
“Ready for our walk?” Etta asks.
“Yep.” I put the broom back in the pantry in the kitchen. Etta and I have fallen into a routine I find therapeutic because of its consistency. To my surprise, Job is standing on the sidewalk waiting for us. He’s wearing loose black pants and a white long s
