Lessons from the Fire. Pt. 1

I clean the walls of the house. 

It has been months since and the specks of golden oil have taken over the gloss that used to be enamel. 

I wipe it with a dripping sponge, soaked in warm water with bleach and detergent. 

I scrub and scrub. I carelessly scrub away the kid’s doodle. 

It is a doodle of endless spirals in blue crayon. 

In mid-action, I thought: Maybe I shouldn’t. 

The dirty foamy water is dripping from my hands clutching the wet sponge, to the ends of my elbows, and finally to the red floor that has been coated with wax. 

The water droplet glistens on the shiny red floor like a piece of broken glass.

I go back to scrubbing. 

Maybe I should let it be. 

I take the dry rag and wipe the suds off the wall. 

The oil is gone, the creamy paint is now creamier and the blue doodle is now a dull, toned down version of the kid’s excited scrawls.