Pocket Dispatch From the Kitchen Floor
My dad groans when he bends down to the kitchen floor with his dust pan to sweep up piles of crumbs he has gathered with the broom. I watch him do this several times each day during our visits. It’s his way of trying to always be useful, which I once derided as a symptom of declining value and influence but now understand to be a selfless expression of humble and generous love.
I watch him groan, his old joints cracking and popping, and the image imprints on my concept of old age.
Then, at home, I too sweep my kitchen floor again and again, both as an expression of love, and as an exasperating symptom of parenthood. I unconsciously hold my breath as I crouch, and as my skeleton folds, density forces the air from my lungs. My right knee makes its usual cracking sound, and as I finally reach the floor, I groan.