The Next Chapter
Gramma was standing at the well. She was turning the crank, winding up the chain. She was gazing at the alder woods past the ponds, which my aunt had stocked with thousands of little fish. Those fish had now matured, giving evidence of their existence by air bubbles and tiny waves that disturbed the surface when they swam up after the breadcrumbs tossed in the water. Gramma hoisted the bucket out of the well, spilled the water into a bowl of carrots and potatoes, squatted down and began washing the vegetables.
My life was not yet my own. My life was Gramma’s life, Auntie’s life, and the life of all the women in my family. And now you, Olanda, take the place of all those women. And that suits me fine.
Make some more tea, will you? My stomach hurts. O God, how it hurts.
