A Clean Slate

In an upstairs shower-room, with barely the space to swing a cat, my little daughter cleans the glass.

In shower tray - facecloth in hand - she polishes and rubs. Glass screen and tiles. And dusts the floor with her cotton romper'd bum.

I wonder where she gets it from? In a house where glass panelled doors reflect fingers and thumbs. Where time runs fast and grubby marks are often left un-rubbed.

I imagine it will remain so whilst my children are young.

Yet my daughter has learned to scrub. Peers at her mum putting make-up on. As if to say 'Why dirty that face? You'll only have to wash if off.'

I tell her it's my mask to face the world. That one day she'll wear make-up of her own.

Or maybe not - rosy cheeks and golden locks.

And small clean hands, which bear not to be sticky with porridge or jam. High chair bound she holds them out - to be fed, to be wiped, to be lifted up... x