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May 25, 2009


It's cleaning day.

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Once a year is all I have with him. One day out of 365 when it’s ok to sit, and talk, and tell him how I’ve changed and where I’m heading. He listens so well on that day. The first day of spring: Cleaning day.
Mum chooses me to clean the shed every year, her and the girls get the house. I don’t mind. Because there, with doors closed and voice lowered, I open the old tool box, so huge, and let myself touch my fathers weathered hand. Dry, like leaves.

I’ve forgiven him. He won’t want to leave again.

Posted by: Kim at May 25, 2009 1:41 AM · Permalink

I twirl, leaves cascade around me like confetti. Yellow, orange and red conceal the last traces of green beneath my feet. I laugh. The crunching leaves manoeuvre between bare toes tickling like feathers. The earth is changing, cleaning away the year in a grand spectacle of artistic colour. Each colour, more vibrant than the next is perfectly faultless as if personally touched by God. Falling to the ground I roll playfully among earth’s memories wishing my cleansing could be so simple, so colourful. Slowly I untangle broken leaves from my long hair marvelled by the effortless joy of the day.

Posted by: marie at May 25, 2009 8:16 PM · Permalink

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