Post #5: Boxes on Boxes

He’d always had the worst handwriting. No wonder Officer Conway’s people didn’t know what it read. Not that it would’ve served them much purpose anyways. She’d be keeping that picture, instead of allocating it into one of the bins for disposal of some sort.

Donna had decided to clean out some of the stuff — stacks of miscellaneous papers and books, old clothes that the kids had outgrown or left behind or that she herself had no occasion to wear anymore — piling up around the apartment, sorting them into garbage bags or bins for donation to the Salvation Army. She’d enlisted Nina to try and sell some of the bigger stuff — electrical appliances, chairs and pillows, toys and tools — on online marketplaces.

There was a knock at the door. Donna looked at her watch.

“Come in Bea,” she called to the entrance. “I’ll be right out.”

Bea liked to stop by for a couple minutes when she came by with the mail.

“Are you moving out or something?”

“No,” Donna replied. “Not at the moment, at least.”

“What’s with all the boxes then?”

“Just cleaning some of this stuff out. I don’t need a whole lot of it since the kids don’t live here anymore.”

Donna hadn’t told anyone yet, but she’d been thinking she didn’t really need the space in this apartment anymore either.

“This is a lot of rooms for just one woman though,” Donna continued. “I have been thinking about downsizing, even if that means just moving back down to the second floor.”

“People on this floor would never get their mail if you did that!” Bea was laughing. “But I was worried you might be moving out of the building, I’m glad to hear that’s not what’s going on.”

She headed towards the door.

“Alright, I’m gonna finish the route then head back to my little room.”

“See you later Bea.” Donna closed the door behind her.

Truth was, she was considering moving out of the building. She’d gotten an offer for a managerial position at another one of Grumble Bee’s locations in town, and it seemed to her like the last of her roots at the Foxberry would be more or less cut off if she made the switch. After all, Nina and Tommy weren’t at Columbia Middle or High just a few blocks away, and she had no family here.

What Donna did have left in Apt. 602 was memories, many of which took some sort of shape in the very items and papers she was sorting for disposal.

Post #4

The frogs had forced Grumble Bee to close only a few minutes after she got there in the morning.
Donna enjoyed working there much more than she did her job at the gas station. She’d been working 
there for the better part of a decade so she had the respect of the younger employees and some 
managerial responsibilities. Her bosses were good people: the Godwin’s. A married couple who’d
just recently moved away from the neighborhood and closer to their franchise’s two other locations, 
they’d helped her navigate the relationship with Officer Conway and his people when Tommy had his 
run-ins with them.

Donna often thought she’d be better off dropping the job at the gas station: the shifts were terrible 
and lonely. But she worried she’d never leave the neighborhood if she did that, and it was that same 
sense of wanting to get away some that drove her to initially follow the frogs which were parading away 
from the river.

Some folks were trying to carry them back to the water, but when she went to pick one up, it hopped 
away from her hands. She walked alongside the trail of green beasts heading east, away from their 
homes downstream of the old Glenn plant. They’d said they’d be cleaning that area up when the plant 
closed some years ago, but if even these slimiest of creatures couldn’t stand the water anymore, she 
figured the river was soiled beyond repair. If the frogs had been there for the meetings and 
announcements posted around the Foxberry that Glenn Electric had put in place when they withdrew, 
they’d feel the righteous sense of violation many of the plant’s former employees felt to this day.

As she walked with them, they continued to avoid her. They left a gap in their file at the level where 
she walked alongside, but would gladly brush other passers by. It did really seem like it was just her 
they didn’t want to come in contact with.

I’m not responsible for the destruction of your home, she thought. That broken promise wasn’t mine 
to keep.

Maybe they felt her guilt though, and assumed she must be the one to blame for their troubles: 
animals, like children, sometimes understood what they couldn’t articulate, sensed when something 
was off even when they couldn’t possibly conceive the gravity of a situation.

She wanted to follow them to the place they’d go because their old life wasn’t viable anymore; 
see what they’d do now that the time for cleaning up and making amends was over and a saga was 
irreversibly closed; would they end up coming back to the same place, stuck on the injustice of their 
home’s contamination? She remembered she had some papers to square away, for the rent due by 
the week’s end. So she turned around and headed home, turning off the path of exodus as soon as 
she could to put out of sight the victims of a past left unsettled.