At sunset I carry a white ceramic pitcher out to the porch.
I sit on the step and pour cool water over my muddied feet.
I scrub the last streaks off in the upstairs tub. Laska,
curious at the running water, pokes his nose over the edge of the tub and,
after a moment, jumps in, smearing muddy pawprints on the white. He pads around
in the water for a minute—then he looks up at me, solemn, and climbs out.
I drain the tub and pat my calves and ankles dry. Dad's painting walls. I walk downstairs, barefoot, raw.
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