A Letter From Your Kitchen Floor
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A Letter From Your Kitchen Floor

Abused, or simply misunderstood?

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A Letter From Your Kitchen Floor
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Imagine if your sole purpose in life was to be stepped on. To you, I am just your kitchen floor. I have no voice and no say in what happens to me. Believe it or not, I have feelings.

I have been stepped on, stomped on, even cried on. The only care you provide for me is when you lazily wipe my surface with that old, rusty mop once every two weeks. All the dirt and dust that covers my exterior is wiped clean, and I am left with a fresh, clean slate. However, for some reason, I always end up getting dirty again. The dog seems to be my best friend at times and my worst nightmare. I provide a cool surface for him to lie on during the long, hot summer days. However, the sticky mixture of his slobber and his shedding leaves me feeling disgusted. I have a constant shell of filth all the time.

When Mom makes dessert, especially her famous banana pudding, somehow she always ends up spilling a drop of thick, vanilla pudding on me. Often, five-year-old Billy spills his goldfish, and Dad proceeds to accidently step on it. Crumbs everywhere. Don't even get me started on spilled milk. You lazily wipe a paper towel over me, but the milk seeps into the cracks where it finds its final resting place.

Rain is my worst nightmare. You carelessly strut into the house with your muddy rain boots, ruining my shiny, pure white surface.

Not all parts of my life have been bad. I remember when you first picked me out. I thought you were going to pick the red tile. But you ended up picking me, the shiny black and white tile. (Personally, I'm not a fan of red.) I've watched the kids grow up. I remember when young Billy would crawl around on me. He took his first steps on me. I used to love when Lucy wore those soft pink bunny slippers. Those felt nice when she would glide across my smooth floor. Now all she wears is those red stilettos. (Again, not a fan of red.) Those pierce into me and hurt me. She used to play board games with Dad all the time. The dice would skip across my smooth surface. I remember Billy and Lucy would always fight over who got to be the dog in Monopoly. I don’t even remember the last time she played board games with the family. The Monopoly dog is rotting under the refrigerator. Lonely and forgotten, like me.

You don't realize it, however, most things you do really affect me. I'm tired of being stepped on. I'm tired of being used and mistreated. And most of all, I'm tired of being taken advantage of.

Oh, and the new Swiffer Sweeper totally is not worth it.

Sincerely,

Your Kitchen Floor.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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The sun rose and peeked through the sheer curtains. Rose’s alarm shrieked. The loud bells caused her phone to jump on the side table. It was time for her to get ready for church. Blindly reaching for her phone, she shut the alarm off and pulled at the covers providing her a cocoon of warmth and tossed them to the side. She swept her bare feet across the bed to touch the cool wooden floor.

Rose softly tiptoed to the corner of the bedroom to grab her clothes dangling on the arm of the bedroom chair. Scooping all of the items of her chosen outfit, she headed to the bathroom hoping that she wouldn’t drop anything.

Round, piercing blue eyes stared back at her in the bathroom mirror. Rose fingered the wrinkles forming around her eyes. So many of them bore signs of laughter and smiling. Slowly dropping her hands, she couldn’t remember the last time she laughed in her home with Tom. Shaking her head as if to erase the negative thoughts, she reached for her makeup bag and went through her regular routine.

Applying her favorite deep rose lipstick, Rose headed downstairs to make her coffee and bagel to take with her to church. The smell of dark-roast coffee swirled in the air as Rose sliced her cinnamon raisin bagel. Hearing the Keurig sputter with the fresh brew, Rose found the interruption of the stillness comforting. The toaster signaled that her bagel was done with a soft pop. It had a delicious golden brown color. Placing the bagel on the counter, she generously spread honey nut flavored cream cheese across both halves. Gathering her bible, notebook, and pens from the side table on the porch she stuffed them into her purse. Purse hanging on her right shoulder she juggled her coffee and bagel in both of her hands as she headed to the garage.

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