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Under the Kitchen Table

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!”


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