It was nothing profound.
But then maybe it was.
I’d noted aloud with my spoon pointing at each kid that every time they returned to the table they scooched to a new seat.
They looked at each other. They looked at the table.
They noted to some degree the…
Smeared refried beans hardening where someone had tried to scoop them back on his plate with a finger. They eyed the pepper pile freshly ground by small hands, shifting like tumbleweed across the table’s surface at the weakest breath. Half glasses of forgotten water. A Ranger Rick magazine opened to pages nine and ten.
“Um,” my son started. It was the figurative light bulb daring to flicker. “I think we’re the messers.”
He glanced around, nodding with certainty now. “Yep,” he said. “We make the messes, and you guys clean ’em up.”