The neighbourhood has seen better days, but Mrs. Pauley has lived there since before anyone can remember. She raised a family of six boys, who’ve all grown up and moved away. Since Mr. Pauley died three months ago, she’d had no income. She’s fallen behind in the rent. The landlord, accompanied by the police, have come to evict Mrs. Pauley from the house she’s lived in for forty years.
Today’s prompt: write this story in first person, told by the twelve-year-old sitting on the stoop across the street.
What’s this? Mrs Pauley is crying and screaming. She never cries, at least not in public. I had no idea what eviction was until Gran came out upon hearing the screaming. “She’s being kicked out of her house.” Even I know what being kicked out of somewhere meant. I’ve been kicked out of my room by an older sister who wanted privacy on the phone. There is no one to help her. It’s not like she has no where to go. She has family somewhere. Doesn’t she? Gran began again: “Six boys and not one of them has lifted a finger to help.” Brother got on the phone. He called and informed one of the sons. He didn’t know she even had problems. “O sure.” said Gran, ” They were all at the father’s funeral.” “Why didn’t he take her home then?” I kept watching her sitting on the curb. She was still crying. What can we do? I settled everything. If we couldn’t take her in, at least I could stay with her until her son showed up. I headed across the street and did the best thing I knew to do. I gave her the biggest hug I knew how. This often helped me when Gran hugged after I was often kicked out of the bedroom.