They are soaking each other with the hose, taking turns spraying jets of water into the air and onto giggling faces.
I hold my tongue.
From warning to be careful.
From reminding them not to make mud pits
or against wasting water.
And I just watch instead, letting their laughter infiltrate the tired, the impatience that's rested heavy on my heart and come flying out of my mouth in murky, heavy phrases.
Mud pits. And sopping wet clothes. And dirty footprints. And whatever else -- they are all easily wiped away, damp towel to the mess, tossed in a washing machine and rinsed clean by water.
But words -- black and staining -- seem to stick, tattoos pressed onto skin and hidden under clothing peaking out in the parroted sentences and phrases from little lips during moments of frustration.
I should know. I dine on words like others feast on chocolate and yet
I forget sometimes.
I forget how powerful that little muscle in my mouth really is when it's carelessly flicking itself around the mudpit in my own mouth,
my words splattering against the white walls of their hearts.
I forget how He spoke the world into existence
how words create ...
How they blemish
but, also, how they cleanse.
I want to speak life, pure and clear.
I find myself praying, pleading
Oh, Lord, wipe me down
rinse me clean.
Not just my hands
but my mouth, too.
This piece was written for and inspired by a prompt for our Bigger Picture Blogs Writing Circle group. Writing Circles is a virtual critique space where writers come together to share their work, receive and give constructive feedback and grow. Click here to learn more or sign up for a FREE circle.
Linked with Let's Hear it for the Boys with The MOB Society and Bigger Picture Moments over at Sarah's.