This morning bleary eyed and exhausted, I lurched the refrigerator door open to grab milk for my coffee sending the long-stemmed wine glass I had set atop the night before, sailing to the floor. The glass shattered, almost exploded, into hundreds or thousands of various sized shards and fragments, luminaries, littering my kitchen floor; reminders of my exhausted carelessness. Even wearing flip-flops, I managed to get a small fragment embedded in the bottom of my left foot.
I directed my daughter who up until this moment was content with watching television on the living room couch, not to enter the kitchen while my suddenly awake senses surveyed my small, early morning disaster. I scurried about with broom and dustpan, pausing only to extract the small glass shard from the bottom of my foot, praying my son, now relegated to his playpen, would stop screaming; a screaming child is not what my landlady prefers to listen to at 6:30am.
Even after I finished running damp paper towels across the floor to catch any glass that may have escaped my attention or that of the broom, I was dissatisfied, and unconvinced I had removed every fragment from the semi smooth old linoleum tile. I felt inept at cleaning; inept at providing a safe surface on which my children could walk and play without the fear of glass piercing their delicate skin; inept.