The swishing of the broom on my kitchen floor
is an echo of the endless pain in my heart.
A voice on the radio crackles over the summer breeze
floating in through the open window.
I see in the backyard children playing,
little boys chasing and chopping at the pear tree with imaginary machetes –
little girls pushing baby strollers and chatting to their dollies.
Crisp, fresh linens on the clothes line, flapping and slapping
in the breeze, seeming to keep time with the
swish, swish, swish, swish of my broom
as I stand in the middle of the kitchen floor
sweeping . . . . what?
Crumbs from their toast at breakfast, or imaginary spiders of fear that torment my soul –
I do not know what I am sweeping, but I continue to swish, swish, swish
because it makes me feel useful – perhaps.
But probably not, because there is nothing that I do that ever makes a difference,
not even the prayers for my children that I send up, up, up
day after day, year after year, moment by moment,
asking, pleading that somehow one day it will matter.
