You malingered in my house like mud tracked in over the threshold. I’d just cleaned. I was tired of mopping you up from the corners. 

So I let the footprint stay. In time it seemed to be part of the house. Anyone who would have frowned at it upon first entry came to see it as part of the decor. The comments dried up like the dirt.

I am known for sweeping away the bad things. I have been the sum of joy. The fire burning and never the soot left.

But brushing away that pain is exhausting. And what is one streak of mud in a house of good meals, empty wine glasses, clean sheets, wool and silk. 

The filth will not define me. I will not wash it away. Instead, I leave the dirt at the entryway and let anyone who crosses into my home see who has been there. 

A bit of dirt in the corners shows a home has been lived in. Come and live.

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