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mopping up my child's mess,
a spilled concoction of the once edible,
forced me to focus
on the spill,
not the concoction.
not the spill, either, but the mop,
its handle a spiral of uneven stripes
of my favorite colors
at the time of its painting.
it was my prize,
my reward from my child
for having won more time
with her.
I held it as if it were
colorless and plain
as if I were
a prisoner polishing
a prison floor.
I knew that colors there only came
with freedom.
come, my child, spill and create.
there had been, before your return,
a mopless kitchen, empty
without your colors
all but lost to memory's fade
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fathermag.com