Things Get Better

The brown envelopes pile up on the table like a giant deck of cards nobody wants to play with. You'll get in trouble, they say; it's better to know, they say. Yeah, Yeah, I say. The letters are not going anywhere, are they? I'll open them when I do. Will things get better if I open them?
I veer towards the kettle instead, the old, dependable, limescaled kettle. The tea stains on the last clean mug on the kitchen shelf mark the hours of worry and misery, but it's the last one now. The dishes in the sink are piled high, stacked precariously, and ignored for weeks, just like the damn brown envelopes. It will get better once they are washed and back on the shelf, won't it? That's what they say: clean house, clear mind. I've tried it.
The shuffling marks on the dirty linoleum floor created a path between the makeshift bed on the sofa, the front door and the kitchen, a deeply settled daily routine no floor cleaner can wipe away. At least I can follow the shiny and smooth trail of despair to a way out of here and hope without hope that things will get better.