Twelve Impossible Things Before Breakfast by Jane Yolen

didn’t mind the dry garbage, or rinsing out the bottles and cans for the recycling bins. She didn’t even mind tying up the endless numbers of newspapers that seemed to positively breed in her mother’s den, though she refused to go into the den to get them. But the compost...
    She flung the final bucketload onto the small mountain of scraps and tried not to watch the tomato ends and eggshells creep down the slimy sides. And she didn’t take a new breath until she was well upwind and moving fast.
    God! she thought. Then amended it quickly, in case God was listening, though she doubted he was. Gosh! Ever since her father’s death she had had these big moments of Unbelief. Still, she thought, probably better not to swear. She had an additional thought then. Imagine if the whole world was like the compost heap. Aid not just my life.
    Of course, the world had once actually been that way. They had talked about that in school. The Cretaceous, with its great, wet, green, muddy, mucky, swamp-and-romp dinosaur playground. It was supposed to have been full of fetid and moist, murky growth. like an overgrown compost heap.
Imagine living in that!
Brancy thought. I’d rather die first.
    The word die resounded inside her. It was ugly and sharp and it hurt.
    She rinsed the pail at the outside tap, then walked back into the house. ‘Done,” she called out to her little brother. “I get dishes tomorrow, and you, Mr. Brat—you get the compost.”
    â€œI hate the compost,” Danny whimpered. “Something’s growing out there.” He spoke in the quiet, whispery, scared voice he had used ever since their father died.
    â€œOf course something’s growing there,” Brancy said. She deliberately made her voice sound spooky.
    â€œIt is?” His eyes got wide.
    "Volunteers,” Brancy told him. “And if you’re not careful, they’ll get you!”
    â€œMommmmmmmy,” Danny cried, and ran out of the room.
    Moments later he came back, followed by their mother. She was not amused. “Brancy, he has had enough nightmares since ... without you adding to them.” Her mother never actually used the word death. Or cancer. Her conversation was full of odd ellipses and gaps. Brancy hated it. "I need you to be more ... understanding about ... about things.”
    â€œAll I said was that volunteers grow up in the compost heap. And you know they do.”
    â€œShe said the Bolundeers would get me.” Danny was white faced. “Maybe get all of us. Like they got...” He didn’t say the word Daddy. He didn't have to.
    Mrs. Callanish knelt down. “Oh, Danny, a volunteer”—she pronounced the word very carefully—“is a tomato or squash or some other vegetable that grows from the seeds that are thrown into the compost heap. And they can’t possibly get you. Not like ... Have you ever seen a fierce tomato or a mean pumpkin?” She made a face.
    â€œAt Halloween,” Brancy said. “All those teeth.”
    â€œBrancy!” Mrs. Callanish’s mouth was drawn down into a thin line.
    Brancy knew, even before her mother spoke, that she had gone too far this time. In fact, since her father’s death everything that Brancy said or did seemed wrong, hurtful, awry.
    Her mother was changed, too, beyond all recognition. Before, she had been a funny, cozy kind of mom, always ready to listen, even when she was busy. And as a DA, she was always busy. Now she was stem and unreachable. Brancy understood why—or thought she did. Her mother was trying to be brave and strong, like her father had been throughout his illness. But what made everything worse was that her mother never let them talk about him. About his illness, about his death. She just set his memory firmly between the spaces. He was... (gone).... It was almost as though he had never been a part of their lives at all.
    â€œOK, get your homework out of the way and