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"Get out to the garden and pull up some carrots," Momma says as she turns up the flame under the copper-bottomed pot. I press my feet into her gardening clogs and clomp my way to the back door, hooking the gathering basket over my elbow.
The grass, burned from the long days of heat, tramples under my step and I swat away the mosquito that buzzes in my ear. I kick the gate open and let my eyes wander across the parched soil. The greens are limp and shriveled, the carrots come up through the cracked earth easily, tiny little stubs starved for water. Momma's not going to be happy.
I push open the screen door quietly and watch Momma at the stove stirring the kettle; her face is bent with worry and I know she's wondering how that thin broth will fill the tummies of five hungry children. I look at the measly carrots and know that she won't set a place for herself at the table. She'll say she's ladled from the soup while it simmered.
I wet my lips and roll my tongue into my cheek before clearing my throat to get her attention. When she looks up from the steaming pot, I swallow hard and hold out the disappointing harvest for her to see.
NEXT
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