Catrina swept the pile of dust, paper, and other unrecognizable debris from one end of the hardwood floor to the other, delaying the inevitable. She’d spent over an hour chasing dust bunnies from beneath the furniture and scraping the broom’s stiff bristles along each nook and cranny, determined to get every last particle of dirt, or at least, put off the next dreaded task as long as possible. With a heavy sigh, she reached for the pan.
Two weeks had passed since Nana’s death. While she’d succeeded in staying out of her grandmother’s bedroom, Catrina knew she couldn’t avoid it forever. It was time.
She’d cleaned every other room in the house, some more than once. But her spirited and spunky Nana was dead. Life had to go on.
Catrina stared at the old pictures lining the mantle, all of which contained images of her at some point in time along her development. Catrina as a toddler. Catrina in elementary school, middle school, high school. And finally, Catrina the grown woman she was now.
She often wondered how Nana had done it. She’d never worked outside the home, as far as Catrina could remember. There was no evidence that a man had once been there. There was always just Nana, with her home-cooked meals, warm heart, and unconditional love.
Catrina couldn’t remember her parents. They had died when she was very young. Nor did she have any brothers or sisters. No aunts or uncles. No cousins. No one. Only Nana.
Her vision blurred as moisture collected at the corner of her lashes. What was she to do? She had no money, no job, nothing to sustain herself, or Nana’s house. It was the only home she’d ever known.
"I have to get a job," she whispered to the quiet room.
The mustard-colored curtains with their ghastly print of cranberry and green flowers billowed softly in response as a breeze swept through the open window. The antique couch with its faded burgundy cushions, scarred wooden arms, and buttonless pillows merely sat motionless, as a sofa should do. And her grandmother’s favorite rocker with its spindled back and worn seat, remained frozen in a partial lean, its curled legs and aged frame pulled back by the weight of Nana’s afghan.
She looked fondly upon the old throw. Every evening, after building a fire in the stone hearth between the two tall windows on the outside wall, Nana would sit in her rocker with her blanket draped around her frail shoulders and work on her knitting or crochet, while Catrina would curl up on the worn sofa and study her latest courses. Only two more semesters to go and she would have her degree.
