I’m on my hands and knees under the kitchen table, cleaning up the fallen morsels of a meal lovingly served.
I’m here at least once a day, hidden from view, carrying out another invisible task. Even my children, who like being under tables, never come near when I clean here.
Under the kitchen table where meals are lovingly served I see my mother.
But I don’t remember her being here.
Surely I sprinkled my servings around my chair and my mother picked them up. That thought takes me swimming in waves of emotion. But I have no time for swimming—other mindless tasks await me.
I crawl backwards minding my head as I rise up. I glance at my work and compliment myself (because no one else is ever going to):
“It looks fantastically clean there under the kitchen table!”