The Joylessness of Being Six (a short story)

This story is dedicated to Sonya, who has been through so much more than this. As I wrote this story, I drew on experiences of Sonya's. Sonya is a strong beautiful woman who didn't have a very good start to her life. What she has become today was against all odds. You are amazing, Sonya.

(Weekly Writing Phrase: Powdered sugar explosions rarely hurt.)

An only child, Clara often spent time with grown-ups. She sometimes wondered if she was really a grown-up too, just one who looked like a little girl and so didn't get the respect the grown-ups got.

Just all the responsibility.

One afternoon, it was sunny though she hardly noticed, Clara was helping her mother in the kitchen. They were preparing a meal for her father. Her father was a stern man, who never cracked a smile. He was always too busy to be bothered with the annoyances of a child.

Especially Clara.

As a result, Clara learned to never make a sound. She was to only be seen, and never to be heard. Furthermore, she was only to be seen doing something useful.

Playing was not useful. Drawing was not useful. Reading was not useful.

On this particular day, Clara was trying to keep herself busy while her mother grumbled to herself unhappily. Her mom's brow was creased with worry.

Clara knew better than to think it was the lasagna noodles in her hands that put her mother in this mood.

Clara also knew better than to look like she had nothing to do, or to further aggravate her mother in some other way. So she tried to determine what needed to be done. There were dishes in the sink, so she began to run hot soapy water.

Her mother seemed oblivious to her.

Being six years old, Clara should have been in school. But she didn't go to school. Her parents home-schooled her so that she could be at their constant disposal for whatever work they needed her to do.

Usually the work they needed her to do was peddle religious journals door to door.

Clara was a very serious little girl.

She was chubby, which did not help her self esteem. She was lonely because she had no school friends and rarely spent time with her church friends. Not playing anyway. They were usually "preaching the good news of God's Kingdom" too.

Clara was shaken from her too-adult-for-a-six-year-old thoughts, "Young lady! What do you think you are doing?" Her mother cried at her, exhaustedly.

Regaining her bearings, Clara realized she was up to her shoulders in bubbles and there was water running over the sink onto the old cracked linoleum floor. Oh, couldn't she do anything right?

After helping her clean up the mess, Clara's mother gave her a new job, making dessert. It was a simple cake mix and surely she could handle adding the eggs and water and mixing it. Her mother handed her a frosting recipe that required a few more ingredients, but otherwise was simple enough for a six-year-0ld.

Or so her mother thought.

As Clara measured out the ingredients, her mind began to wander again. She thought of things she dare not, places she only dreamed of being. Anywhere but her house. Anything but this life.

Clara saw movement in the corner of her eye. It was the family cat. She wished with all her might that she could have been the cat. Her parents adored the cat. They never yelled at the cat. The cat would curl up in her father's lap.

Clara's dad never even hugged her. She hated the cat.

The frosting recipe called for powdered sugar. Clara had to climb up onto a chair to reach it in the cupboard. The plastic Tupperware where the sugar was usually kept was empty. She noticed a new plastic bag tucked into the corner and pulled it out. She turned to ask her mom for help opening it, but her mother had such a scowl on her face and was stuck in her own little world. Clara decided against interrupting her mother.

Maybe if she wasn't only a little girl, Clara would have thought to use a pair of scissors to open that bag of sugar. But she didn't. And when the bag finally did give, it exploded everywhere. Clara exploded too, big hot tears stinging her cheeks.

"Clara, powdered sugar explosions rarely hurt." Her mother cackled at her.

Since Clara never knew if she would be spanked or laughed at when she did
something stupid, this comment only made her cry harder.

Her mother was right. Powdered sugar didn't hurt. Nothing hurt like the joylessness of life.