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Mary McKnight's avatar

Laundry, a task I loathe for its repetitiveness, until last April. As I dragged the dry clothes out, there in the bottom of the drum, lay something shiny. I leaned down further to reach in and retrieve this mystery item. It was a pen, but not just any pen, it was one of my dad's. Why was his pen in my dryer. All my life, he kept notecards and a pen in his pocket, but only in his civilian clothing as it was not part of the official Army uniform he wore with pride each day. Dad had died just days before and I knew I had not confiscated one of his pens! But there it was. Wait, there was one more thing in that cavern, so I reached down again, and discovered an earring. Not just any earring, but the one I had lost over 20 years ago, three houses, two relationships ago...the part of the pair I had worn when my daughter was born. Mom. Mom had died a month to that day. They were signs, I knew it! I don't believe in signs, but that day, I started to, and each dryer cycle since, I look for a little something, with the wonder of a child. Suleilka and Joanne, thank you both for inviting me, this wounded and battered soul, back into the world of wonder in my world.

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Kim.'s avatar

The floor greeted me like an old friend,

cool & sure beneath my knees.

I had dropped—without question,

without ego—just dropped.

Unlike the others, who stood tall & talking,

I folded into the quiet language of ground-dwellers.

There, on the level of crumbs & claws,

a small dog approached—rescued,

but not yet convinced she’d been saved.

She rumbled—a growl more ancient than threat,

rolling like thunder across linoleum.

Still, I stayed low,

less predator, more question mark.

One paw, then another.

A sniff. A hesitant orbit.

Then she climbed me like uncertain terrain,

her bandicoot nose pressed to mine—

not in trust, but in truce.

Topsy.

Of course her name would be Topsy.

A name that sounds like a tumble,

like something tipped gently from a shelf

& never quite landed—just kept going,

until she found me, folded on the floor.

We saw each other better that way.

Bent. Close.

Astonishment, not in her softness,

but in her decision to meet me there.

I’ve been living this way my entire life—

on the floor of things,

where the stories come sniffing,

& something wild remembers my name.

――――――――――――――――――――

Dearest Suleika,

I don’t know this particular kind of ache,

but I am reminded of my sweet friend

who once described chemo as wearing

a crown woven from bitterness & metal.

I just hope today there’s the crunch of something you can stomach,

the constant feel of fur, & sun, or rain depending on mood

& some small proof that beauty hasn’t left the room.

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