“it’s my destiny” I used to joke
To forever pick up after boys/men
Who leave everything where ever it falls,
whether it was a pair of socks or shorts
Or a wet bath towel,
Or a screw driver,
Or the sodden Kleenex tissues
Wadded up and dropped,
Because, of course, he has a cold,
And can’t reach the waste paper basket
Alongside his bed, inches from his nose in
close proximity to spoons, bowls, and glasses
left on the floor while he lays in bed and
complains. I pick up the magazines, the discarded
newspaper (once the crossword puzzles has been
worked), the mail, his prescriptions from the pharmacy.
I pick up everything he has left behind. “He” takes
on many different faces–first, the ex, before he
became the ex, then the four sons, followed by three
grandsons, then the significant other who was not
much different from the ex, when it came to
everything that is dropped, strewn, scattered, spread,
rejected, discarded, misplaced, left behind, forgotten,
lost, from Infancy to Manhood, from pacifier to
chewing gum wrapper to cigarette butt. “He” perfects
the art; my back is perpetually bent from picking up.
I did not know this was my destiny when I started out.
It’s not a joking matter anymore.
Sandra Lee Smith/January 2009
