“Those dishes won’t clean themselves.” Momma reminded us with a hip perched against the doorframe. She watched over her horde of offspring as we licked the last of the syrup off our plates, lips smacking into sticky smiles.
“I made breakfast.” Rich, my older brother, replied. He knew the sentence removed him from dish-duty and crossed his arms smugly because of it.
My younger sister shouted. “I wash them!”
It wasn’t that she loved dishes, she just hated everything else.
Momma nodded, approving Jane’s enthusiasm with a tired smile. She took a moment to watch the seven year old lather up the sponge before turning back to the remaining four of us.
“And the rest of you?”
Saturday was chore day in our household. It was akin to Sunday gamenight, in that it was just as horrible but for completely different reasons. No one wanted to spend hours around the dining room table with their siblings (especially ones that acted like complete dorks) any more than they wanted to clean the gutters – at least, that’s how I felt about game night. Jane and Charlie loved it.
“I’ll mop.” Anne told the pages of her book.
Mopping, dishes and cooking were officially taken and if I didn’t say something soon I’d end up mowing the –
“I got the bathrooms!” Charlie, barely ten, shouted triumphantly in my face before walking to the bleach. My teeth clenched.
I looked out the window to where the summer rays had grown the grass nearly a foot, where heat rose from the ground to blur the green blades, where the unrelenting sun would be laughing at me for the next couple of hours. It was a sweltering eighty-five degrees outside and my siblings just tossed me into the Pit of Carkoon.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Those Dishes Won’t Do Themselves.”