One Wipe per Step

On a Saturday morning you stayed in bed and said you wished someone would come over. That small wish started something new and made the world feel just a little bigger. I half joked saying we should probably clean, and you jumped up with a spark in your eyes. One step one wipe, your rule for the day, a new sheet every time no matter what I said. The pack of twenty sheets disappeared in no time. It might not have been efficient, but it was the way you believed was right.

While the toast was cooking you scrubbed each step with a serious face. Your voice rang out saying you were cleaning now, and your back looked so reliable. I handed you my phone for light, and you shone it into every corner. You smiled like you had found treasure with every speck of dust. You used the last sheet with care, wiped the floor in a final sweep, and said all done. Then you sat on the couch, leaving sticky floors and damp steps that I did not fix. That felt right for a morning like this.

To be honest it did not get cleaner, maybe even messier. But you did it your way from the heart, and that was what mattered most. It might not have been perfect, but someday this one wipe per step may become your way of welcoming someone home. A quiet acoustic ballad capturing a parent watching and letting it be.