Don’t look too closely underneath. There may be a secret there.
An old friend or two that drifted away for some reason we never quite figured out.
Unresolved irritations that always find their way out again.
A sister or brother that weren’t worth the risk of confrontation.
It’s actually fairly lumpy from all the people, the faces I don’t want to deal with, just cover and forget.
It’s March, I’m considering lifting it to clean with everything else, putting these things in their proper places: with phone calls or prayers.
Outside in the breeze I can pop it out, wash it until it’s colorful again, and hang it to dry over the fence.
Nothing to hide. Nowhere to hide it.
If I do set it back on my kitchen floor, it will be freshly cleaned and the only thing that will ever be swept under will be hurtful words I choose to forgive.
I won’t cover people, just their stuff- inconsistencies in them that I can’t change or judge.
With my feet, I’ll smooth out the corners over broken promises and mistreatments I used to hold over my head like a banner and, lifting the edge,
kick under indifference I receive from the ones I’m meant to love.
I bought several of these rag rugs for cheap at the grocery store the other day with the intention of sewing a couple together to make a long kitchen rug or something.
But this picture got me thinking about the phrase “Swept under the rug.” and whether or not I do more “sweeping” than I used to.