All that Glitters?

I smile to myself thinking of her recently discovered love of painting, a passion displayed in the paint on her clothing and her face that have become par for the course. And now the color has made its way to her bedsheets, too. Of course it has, I realize. It was on her cheek last night when she went to sleep.

As I load the drum and stuff it to capacity, I contemplate how an artist leaves her mark.

And then there’s boring old me, I think. I don’t have a signature fingerprint that lets the world know I was here. What’s on my pillowcase at the end of each day, permanent enough to still wait for me every morning?

I turn to tackle the kitchen, my mind churning with thoughts of paint and children and love and motherhood. There’s so much still to do, no time for thinking now — but I want to know, really, what do I put into the world and leave in it each day? What would one find on my hands and my face, and naturally, my pillowcase?