I stood there and looked at the damp spots for a minute.
The night after our son died, I did not go to sleep. I lay down on our bed at about 2:00 a.m., and at about 5:00 I decided that I had pretended long enough that sleep was a possibility. I went down to the kitchen, looked at the filthy floor, and thought about all the people who were about to show up. It's a large kitchen, so I pushed the table and chairs aside and mopped the half on the sink and refrigerator side.
It was so humid that the floor wouldn't dry, and when my brother came down half an hour later and went to get some juice, he left huge and grimy wet footprints across the mopped half of the room.
I looked at his footprints and thought, Why on earth would anyone in the world care about a kitchen floor?
I didn't bother to re-wash it, or to do the other half.
It's a beautiful day today. So sunny that I can dry hand wash outside, and so breezy that I can do a little house and yard work comfortably.
Who knew that a damp kitchen floor could carry so much weight?