Foster Farms: A Short Story

While sitting in my dining room, next to the kitchen, I see my mom rubbing her boots with each other in an effort to slide them off. She had just come from work. She leaned to her left to place her hand on the wall to find balance. Walking towards the living room, she observed grains of yellow lentils scattered over the dark and light brown rug next to the sliding ride that my little nephew was enjoying. “Did you guys not vacuumed today?” in her regular authoritative, demanding voice. Her jacket with a sticker of Foster Farms smelled like raw chicken as she proceeded to take it off. While she was removing her jacket, she kneeled down to give a kiss to my son. She is only five feet and chubby and seems like someone who have a low and calm voice.