I don’t feel relief.  I don’t know what I feel.

No, I feel mixed up.  I’m mad at Mom for giving up on Daddy.  I’m mad because I don’t understand why Daddy can’t stop drinking.  I’m mad at Donna because she feels relief, and not anger, like me.  I’m mad at myself because I don’t feel relief, like my sister.  I’m mad because Donna asks a dumb question.  Everything in this world is stupid, stupid, stupid.

“No, Donna, we’re moving to our own apartment,” said Mom.

It is as simple as that.

For the first time, the garden is ugly.  On the outside of the garden, I look in at the autumn decay of plant life, as they wither and die, turn in for the winter, the last of their old life dusts down to the dirt of dear, sweet, Jesus’ earth.