Ten more minutes…nine more minutes…eight…
I tapped my foot, even though it wouldn’t hurry the end of the school day. The remaining five minutes always stretched into an hour.
Students stuffed papers and books into backpacks while I sat. Mine was zipped and ready.
“Book reports due Monday. Sign up for a science project. Don’t forget…” Miss Anderson’s reminders faded into the classroom’s drone.
Giggles circled around the tight clique of girls near the door. Since Grandma died, I had drifted away from their group and didn’t care. Grandma had warned me that grief was a heavy fog, but she said it would clear with time and as I kept my promise. She’d also given me a pine-cone.
Brrrrrrrrng.
Miss Anderson stepped into the hallway as students crowded through the doorway. Laughter and boisterous chatter about weekend plans escalated. Sharp clanks and bangs rang down an adjoining hallway as upperclassmen slammed locker doors. Teachers became sentinels, monitoring the mass exit from school.
When the classroom cleared, I grabbed my pack and dropped the note on Miss Anderson’s desk.
Thank you. You work hard to teach us, and you’re doing a great job. Have a nice weekend. – Jenni
It wasn’t much, but it was the first time I owned up to the promise.
I strode past Miss Anderson with a polite goodbye but imagined her smile when she read the note. For a moment, the thought hushed my deep ache.
Number 28, my yellow ride home, waited behind the other buses. I boarded last, and as usual, all the seats were taken, except the one behind the driver, Mr. Hunt. The bus eased out of the parking lot and sped past fancy neighborhoods. I sat alone.
Twenty minutes later, the bus stopped at my apartment complex, and I unzipped my backpack and smiled to myself. This will be two in a row, Grandma.
“Have a nice weekend.” I handed an apple to Mr. Hunt.
His eyes widened and his forehead scrunched up. “What?”
I shrugged.
He took the apple. “Geeze, kid.”
Surprised that his voice choked and jolted by an inner warmth, I bounded down the bus steps and climbed the stairs to our apartment. Grandma would have loved the look on Mr. Hunt’s face.
The warmth faded as I unlocked the door, and a strong wave of loneliness surged as I entered the cramped living room. Grandma’s last gift sat on the coffee table. I picked up the pine-cone and closed my eyes. She said it was to remind me that the majestic pine tree at our favorite park grew from a tiny seed. Grandma believed big living starts with small giving.
I threw myself onto the couch and punched the remote. An annoying ad blared from the TV, so I wandered into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal.
Dirty dishes littered the kitchen counter. The trashcan overflowed and stank. Who cared about a note, an apple, or a clean kitchen? Grandma would have cared.
I groaned at my stupid promise, bundled the trash and carried it to the dumpster. Next, I forced myself to scrape dried spaghetti off plates piled in the sink, unload and reload the dishwasher. As I swiveled the dial to the wash cycle, the front door opened.
“Jenni?” Dad’s heavy footsteps crossed the living room, and one step into the kitchen he stopped. “Oh.” His gaze jumped from the sink to the counters to me, and as he pulled me into a hug, more of the foggy pain lifted.
Maybe small things do matter. Maybe Grandma was right—even small giving can lead to big living.