Sweep

The wood floor shone, golden amber. Swept. For the first time in... months? It was finally accessible.

I had rearranged the furniture. Put one girl's clothes in a new dresser I dragged down from the attic. Alone. (My shoulders still bear the pain.) Cleaned up the toys, put some away for good. Removed the old baby books, well most of them, except a few that are still favorites with these beyond-baby girls of mine.

Above the "new" dresser, I put up Eldest Daughter's note-holder. A horizontal bit of wood with clothespins, in rainbow color. Clothespins that would hold photos, I suddenly decided. I found a moody picture of the two girls, pensive by the side of a misty lake. I found one photo full of sisterly hugging mischief. A Christmas picture. Two of the girls picking strawberries as wee little ones. I LOVED each girl even as I swept through with changes I knew they wouldn't understand, nor welcome.

I was not disappointed. Well, in the sense that the girls reacted as I knew they would. Youngest girl came in speechless. Oldest child wept on her bed. Long, long sighs and tears for the dust I'd swept from the corners, for the loss of something, perhaps she wasn't even sure what.

And I thought of you, Lord. You with your broom. You rearranging things beyond my understanding. And I thought of me. Me. Weeping on my bed.