i love the way distressed hardwood floors look, as if they tell a story of a hundred feet in every sinuous grain. in my mind, they are footie-pajama'd children squealing with glee on christmas morning and sliding, back when there was veneer and shine. or, perhaps the swishing of granny slippers and house robe pulled too tight, the wood peeking from beneath the rugs to help keep her warm. yes, weathered wood that has taken a beating, and finally no more splinters to spill.
i sip on coffee hot and au lait colored, and muse over floors. i think i swept our living room three times yesterday. the hardwoods collect dust like i collect memories, and my own children run and leap and slip-slide on these worn wooden planks. one likes to throw especially loud tantrums, arms all flailing til my heart wants to join in, and one is monkey-boy, all blue eyed rambunctiousness, and one is bossy and demanding the others follow the leader. no splinters have wounded their country boy bare feet (bear feet; they all have large feet, like their daddy.)
coffee cools. the cup says, "Her children arise and call her blessed." i wonder if my boys will weather gently like old wood, if they will emerge all grace-worn edges and battered varnish, but smooth as an old proverb.