Dead Plants Christal Ruppert Fiction It's a rare day in August, so I have my car windows down, but even if I didn't, I think I'd still hear Vivaldi's Four Seasons a block away from Opal's house. When I pull up to the curb in front of her house, I just sit for a full minute, trying to comprehend the scene. The front and side doors are propped wide open. The windows, also open, are missing their screens. Rugs litter the front lawn. A cluster of potted plants has taken up residence on the sidewalk. Music pours from every cavity in the house. I sigh and grab the bakery bag from the passenger's seat. Mom owes me for this one. "Opal?" I have to yell because the music is loud enough to burst an eardrum. No wonder Opal needs hearing aids. I mean, besides the fact that she's like 78. I reach for the dial on her kitchen stereo and try again. "It's Kit." There's a dull thud from the direction of the living room, so I drop the bag on the counter and head that way. "Opal?" Opal is standing on a step stool in the middle of her living room, her back to me. I glance around to quickly inventory the room: The couch cushions are propped up against the wall and there's a precarious stack of books next to the case. Opal's reaching for the ceiling light, but there's at least a good two feet between her head and the ceiling. I sigh. "Opal, what are you doing?" She starts as if I've surprised her -- as if she missed the decreased volume on Vivaldi or my shouts from the kitchen. She lowers her arms and turns around. "Oh! Kirsten Ingrid, I wondered when you would get here." "What are you doing?" I repeat. She steps off the stool with determination. "Changing the light bulb and dusting the sconce," she says. "But now that you're here, you can do it." I sweep a hand around the room. "I mean with all of this." "Spring cleaning." Everything is a declaration today. "Opal, it's August." "Kirsten Ingrid Therese, it is never too late to clean your house." I raise an eyebrow. I step onto the stool and reach for the light fixture. "You shouldn't be doing this on your own." "That's why you're here." She says this as if it's obvious, matter-of-fact. I unscrew the glass globe and bite my tongue. If she's using my full name and everything, it's useless to argue that she should have waited. She'd probably lecture me about that, too. But honestly -- she's lucky I did show up before she hurt herself. Opal's constantly trying to overdo things for her age. One of these days, I'm going to show up to find her on the floor with a broken hip or something. I grimace at the thought and keep my grumbling to myself as I take the light apart and hand it down to her. "Don't tell me I'm too old to change a light bulb," Opal warns. The woman is a mind-reader. I give her a teasing look. "Me? I would never." Opal starts working at the grime on the glass dome. "You are a very loud thinker, Kirsten Ingrid. I don't even need my hearing aids for that." "Hey, what's up with broadcasting Vivaldi, anyway?" She gives me a look as if this, too, should be obvious. "It's Spring," she says. I can't tell if she means the movement of Vivaldi or she actually thinks August counts as springtime.
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