Melted Checkers and the Many Death Stars: A Rock Home Companion
I haven’t even cleaned the kitchen from last night. It was Mardi Gras with Confetti cake and dearest friends and Jesus talk, and now it’s beef stew cemented in bowls, air-dried french bread, and many things for the recycling bin. I haven’t even really done away with the melted checker pieces Ian had put on a pan in the oven, the ones I melted in a pre-heating. So I venture there, to the piled dishes and poison plastic smell, and the boys follow. I turn on the music, begin to evaluate my mess.
First I grab the recycling, walk to the bedroom, and stick my legs in my boots, yoga pants puddling at the top. I run outside to an empty bin – except for the roll of aluminum foil that had been strangely missing – and then I throw in my junk, thankfully grab the foil, and run back in to a room of dancing boys.
We dance with our eyes shut unless we open them to cheer.
Star Wars stickers stick to our feet. Shoes come off eventually, and we sock-run into slides across the floor, and no one gets hurt, and I’ve read poetry today, and I’m full of gladness, which is rare but wildfire here. Isaac tells me, “I love everything you wear.” They all hug my legs.
~ If I had the chart already, peeling Death Star stickers off the floor, windows, and walls would have been a smiley face beside the “Show Respect” magnet, but finding melted plastic in the stove would have been its removal. It’s not square one if you add a little dancing.