Don’t cry over spilled milk,
but spilled orange juice
or hot chocolate are another story.
“It was a mistake.”
“And how many times making the same one are we on now?”
because the spills will keep up with me
until I learn anger isn’t any more appropriate than tears in our situation.
I’m the one spilling my misplaced aggression on the countertops and floor.
I’ll dry yours and the mess we made.
Maybe all I’m meant for is picking up the pieces.
Often, it’s the only way to make things right