That's The Way It Is

• Ellen S, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2008

The morning sun shines down on the paddocks, lighting them up with a beautiful milky glow. This is the kind of beauty that has to be seen to be believed. All too soon, however, the beauty will be gone and the sun will be severe, beating down harshly on the once green land, the land that has been in this family since the early settling of Australia. The land that is no longer prosperous, thanks to this drought that has come upon us. We haven’t seen a drop of rain for nearly a year, but that’s the way it is.

We were forced to sell nearly all of our cattle and the ones that we kept are perishing. The chickens aren’t laying very well and one lonely apple tree is all that remains of our orchard. Clad in only pyjamas, I walk out into the yard. Rusty, the heeler is running around me, his whole body wagging along with his tail. I continue onto the stable. There is old Mary-Jo, the only horse that we could afford to keep. She snorts as I rub behind her ear. Unknown to her, I fear that soon we will have to sell Mary-Jo if this drought keeps up for much longer – that’s the way it is.

Rusty barks at the chickens but they just continue to scratch around in the dirt – after all these years they know that he’s all bark and no bite. The chickens were the only animals that we didn’t have to sell any of because they don’t eat much, but even they are looking malnourished now. I return to the stable and slip a bridle onto Mary-Jo, then hoist myself up onto her bare back. I direct her towards the creek, if you could call it that – now it’s more of just a dry, rocky ditch. As I urge Mary-Jo into a canter, I can feel her ribs through her skin - we can’t afford to buy enough food for her, but that’s the way it is.

We reach home. As I dawdle back to the house, I wonder why anyone would want to leave this place. I reach the house and head in the direction of the kitchen. As I cross the room to fix myself a bowl of Cornflakes, something on the kitchen table catches my eye. It is the property section of the newspaper. A house is circled in red pen. “Charming inner-city townhouse,” it reads, “with a double garage, just five minutes from CBD”. I know that this isn’t just an investment property or the house that my auntie is moving to. Clutching the paper, I storm upstairs to where my mother is just pulling on her work boots. She sees me, sees the newspaper and puts two and two together. Her face is blank, but I can see the anguish deep in her eyes as she tells me, “That’s the way it is.”