Prompt: stains on the floor // Letters to September – 17

She grew up in a house with white walls and clean floors. Everything always neat and tidy. Not a single misplaced item or lingering coffee mug. It was her house but it still felt empty. Stripped from emotions and banter. Not a mark on the wall that kept a memory of her first try on roller blades. It’s how it always was. How the mess she made seemed to disappear in a blink of an eye. It was too clean, too spotless, too still. Her house felt too silent. There was no noise from a crooked picture frame or forgotten sweater on a chair. Everything placed in perfect harmony following invisible straight lines. She missed the curved movements of scattered toys. The freedom to dance with the energy that came from the walls. The way a home is supposed to sing like the perfect imperfections of wildflower fields. Like the swaying and bouncing of leaves on a tree. On their own they are far from special but standing together is what makes their beauty show.

The house that you live in doesn’t make it a home in the same way feeling lonely doesn’t mean you’re alone. Find the beauty in small things even if they’re a mess. Give her a house with scruffs on the walls and stains on the floor. That’s what makes her house her home, there is no need to ask for more.

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