The Mop

Memory as a stain, that won’t wash out.

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At the time he had passed it right by, refusing to stare.

But an afterimage now persisted in his head, of the old blue plastic mop.

Cheap strips of J- cloth in place of rich cream knotted cords.

Its head jammed rigid, dank and brown stained, like a drunk, into the mesh of red bucket.

“If only she could see this” he thought, “house-proud she would gag”.

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He had been just passing the house, and called in, asking if he might look around “for old time sake”.

He was allowed in, and the tenant, a young student anxiously led him to the kitchen.

There he felt alien and alone, cast-away in memory.

The student being also far from home, had his own loss, and there was a vast distance between them.

He felt the whole experience so miserable that he didn’t stay long, and after shaking hands awkwardly, he left.

Back in the car, the full weight of the experience landed on him, leaving him pressed in the seat.

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The mop which had not been used for several months, had stood there beside the overflowing rubbish bin.

A loyal sentry at its mistress’s crypt.

Duty now done, it would not remain much longer.

Next day the young student, feeling strangely disturbed, would put it in the yard, in the wet corner beside the black downpipe.

There it would remain throughout the winter, as if still reluctant to leave, until the mould would finally devour its blue cloth head.

Leaving no stains, and only an after image in a sons head.

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