MUD

She wanted to remember the moment. But first - she had to mop.

She watched them play, the boy leaping, the dog soaring after him. Last night’s rain had left behind a thick coat of red mud, the same rusted shade as the bricks of the house behind them. They were a perfect mess of joy and chaos. She should have called them in, but she let them go a little longer.

Mud clung to the dog’s paws, matted his honey-colored coat, painted his tail. The boy’s face looked dipped in rust. His pants, whatever color they once were, had surrendered.

She knew she should be soaking it in, tucking this small riot of joy somewhere safe for the years ahead, when the dog slowed and the boy no longer played. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t. Or maybe she wouldn’t.

Instead, her mind whirred with logistics. How to keep the dog’s tail from painting the walls. How to peel the clothes off her son before he touched anything, including her. How many times had she already mopped this week?

She wished she could sit, sip her tea, and let the moment be what it was. Instead, she took a breath, picked up the towels and the mop, and called them inside. The joy stayed outside, drying in the sun