How she wished that just once … just one random day … she could have polished the golden wood floors to a level of perfection that would earn approval. She loved those floors… the magic that could be wielded with a floor buffer … wiping away the imperfections of another day … leaving behind a gleaming surface. Some days she would imagine the scuffs to be the miseries of her heart, relishing the moment of make-believe control as the brushes whisked them away. She cherished the heart freedom of a perfectly gleaming slate, free of any blemish or shadow or jagged edge.
Then there were the hours of patrolling the entrances to the room, guarding against little footprints … daring dust to settle … protecting the perfection … waiting in anticipation for the eyes of the one who mattered most. At last the car pulls into the driveway … a dog barks … a key rattles in the door … and he steps into the house ornamented with the aroma of pot roast and baking rolls.
“Oh … you didn’t get to the floors today?”