In Search of Fern

The other day I woke up crabby. It happens. Once dressed, I headed to the kitchen for some breakfast. The kitchen was not a sight for crabby eyes. A soup pan was soaking in the sink. A dish of old meat sat on the counter, having been taken out of the refrigerator to make room for last night’s soup. The counter had not been wiped down. You get the picture. Shoot. I would have to clean up before getting breakfast.

“Feerrrrrnnnn!” My mind screamed at the most logical culprit.

It’s funny. I had not thought of Fern in years. She has no last name, no face; I don’t know where she came from. She’s been in the family for generations. Fern is the imaginary maid who has served (or not) in the households of my mother and her sisters. I have inherited her.

Of course, Fern doesn’t actually do any house work; but she’s the closest thing to a maid I’ll ever have.

After breakfast, I took up the mop and a bucket of water to face the kitchen floor. “Where the heck is Fern?” I wondered. “She must be hiding somewhere, eating chocolate and reading the latest romance novel.”

I sigh and think fondly of Fern. I dip the mop into the water and begin my task.



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