Tuesday, June 28, 2011
bleach and heat
My hands smell like bleach and pine-sol. I have finished folding my boy's clothes and am sneaking into his room, late at night, after he has fallen asleep. My mother did this too, I remember the inconvenience of having my sleep interrupted, the harsh smell of the chemicals and the warm comfort in knowing that her care for me was tireless. Did she talk to herself like I do? Constant, an engine asking the same mundane questions "does this shirt still fit my child? what will I do after daycare tomorrow? Does he get enough vegetables?". I violently mop the floors, I see the stains and scrub with a determined anger, I don't know why I am upset, I am probably not; just unused energy.