We watched you sweep the kitchen floor,
when the notion to do so would occur.
Your frustration cut to the core,
with worn-out sighs and murmurs.

Through grinded teeth, you bent your back.
The job had to be done . . .
And now and then a burdened breath
would push the drudgery on.

Between the chairs and under the table,
You masterfully maneuvered the broom.
So, we rolled our eyes and lifted our legs,
As you commandeered the room.

Still, you persisted amid the chaos
of toys, textbooks, and mess,
Even though the reward you reaped,
may have been but a minute’s rest.

Little did we appreciate what will it took back then,
A whole day to scrounge,
to school,
or scold.
Then the next day,
often early,
the madness would start again.

Now we are older and a little wiser
about bending our own backs,
And for the one we so often broke,
we seem to be getting on track.

So, once in a while I take a notion
To sweep the kitchen floor,
And gather dusty memories
of how things were before,

Of toys, textbooks and childhood mess
And whatever else crosses the floor.
I recall the family theatre this house has seen.
Undoubtedly it will see some more!

Then on some desolate day,
a final curtain call,
and we will clear the floor,
then neighbours both young and old will say,
“No one lives there anymore”.