I spent a lot of time picking up after people, big and small. Occasionally, very occasionally, a tiny bit of resentment creeps into my brain. Just tiny, but still.
My blood simmers. Not boils, just simmers a little.
I was cleaning the table, crumpling up all the scraps of scribbled paper, tossing them in the recycling. I grabbed a small piece...and just before I allowed my fist to close around it, I glanced at it quickly.
My heart tightened. A flood of wetness in my eyes. "I love all of you," it says. Written in a six year old's tentative and laboured script. Sweet, sweet boy.
I love all of them, too. I am lucky, happy, grateful, to pick up any and everything my people chuck around. I will take care of them.
For as long as they will let me.