I was lying on my back on the kitchen floor.
it smelled like warm cinnamon rolls. the day was beginnings and endings knit together. starting and ending. over and over again. little pieces of life, slices of emotion. it had been an odd day. a good day.
the evening lulled into a comfortable, languid, happiness.
she cleaned the cutting board, wiped it off with a blue fuzzy towel.
a small portion of bubbles crawled under the cutting board, where she couldn’t see it.
i didn’t say anything. just watched as they traveled beneath, preparing to drip onto the floor. stubbornly, they held on for quite a while before she swiped once more, the towel falling over the edge of the cutting board just enough to wipe away the escapees.
and i got to wondering.
what don’t we see? what goes on beneath? under? into the places where we don’t typically peer inside. what don’t we know is just below us, out of sight?