Broom in right hand, dustpan in left. Plastic handle taps wall as bristles grumble. Knees kiss concrete through frayed denim. Sweep glass, squashed blueberries, and cereal crumbs. The baby, nearly a teen, had fixed a cake with pantry findings. Canned fruit, boxed yellow, and sugar. Yum. We ate it together and played a game of fish. My boy first suggested war, but quickly retracted. Enough fighting. The Mr returned soon after my last card hit the wood table and shortly before the plate would hit my shoulder. He was hungry. I quick-fixed a dish of eggs but the day, my birthday, had already been scrambled. Mr made a mess and mistook my message. More games. More fighting. I lost, again. Lesson learned, again. Salty tears dismantle, only slightly, hardened grime. Dirt piles accumulate and solid
