The Blue Box on the Counter

I bought the borax at the store—

the blue box my mother kept before.

My hand just knew to reach for it,

like muscle memory, like I was fit

to clean the way that she did once,

though I've never learned the stunts

of getting stains out of carpet,

of knowing when to start it,

when to wait, when to rub,

when to give it up.

The stain on my floor has been there weeks—

wine or blood or something that speaks

to a moment I didn't handle right,

something that happened late one night

that I've been ignoring since.

My mother would make it make sense.

She'd know the powder, the water, the heat,

the perfect way to make things neat.

She'd know if you use more or less,

if some things are just a mess

you have to live with, move around,

the permanent mark on your ground.

I mixed the paste and spread it on,

waited for the magic that was gone

before I even started.

The stain just got darker,

set in deeper than before—

proof that I'm not like her anymore,

that her hands held knowledge

mine will never learn in college

or anywhere else.

The blue box sits on my shelf,

mostly empty, mostly proof

that I inherited the truth

but never learned to use it.

I keep it anyway, I can't lose it—

it's all I have left of her care,

this box, this stain, this prayer

that someday I'll figure it out,

that someday I won't doubt

I can do the things she did.

But I probably will.