Leftovers.
It's what's for dinner even if I cook something new.
The kids finish, and I eat what's left on their plates.
Leftovers.
It's what's in my bathroom cabinet.
I finish his almost-squeezed-out toothpaste.
And I salvage the last drops of everything.
Leftovers.
It's what time I have for myself.
After everyone is fed and clean and smiling in their sleep,
I kick up my feet into a criss-cross-applesauce on my desk chair
to write and read and scribble and be.
Leftovers.
It's what's in our artbox.
Broken crayons, scraps of construction paper,
Half-filled paint tubs, sticker sheets stuck together--
and we attack it all.
Clawing for the best leftovers,
we dig in our fingers for the scraps,
for the mess of what's left
to make something new.
Glue galore and stickers atop painted surfaces,
glitter and splashes of goo,
plus maybe some playdough, for texture--
all becoming more.
Leftovers.
I may feel like the bottom of the pile.
I may carry the weight of needs and wants and tantrums and sicknesses.
I may lack the shiny flint of newness
And the wholeness and shapeliness of my younger self.
But then I wouldn't belong in the artbox . . .
Because in there, you're ready for blending,
mixing, creating, molding, and building.
In there, I get to combine my messy moments
with the broken and little and half-bit pieces around me
to fill, beautify, satisfy--
to glorify.
And in that completion I realize that the most precious pieces
often come from the bottom,
from digging deep and finding the one thought lost,
the one thought forgotten,
the one left only to be treasured
in togetherness.
So paint over the buttons
and scribble with the stickers.
Dig for torn origami sheets
and felt scraps and glue.
Create overlap and understanding,
building a new mound of loveliness
with leftovers.
{This post is part of 5-minute Friday--a writing collection each week based on a one-word prompt.}
