The Space Between

There's a tiny corner in my house.
I walk by it and it gives me hope.
It appears to be untouched by chubby little hands - eager to paint the wall of that tiny little corner - with unintentional fat, kid finger strokes of smeared caresses as they walk by.
It has somehow, someway, serendipitously removed itself from the wrecking path of this family.
There is no adult detritus of shed clothing, shoes flung about, laundry, used dishes, books or bits of daily living left there - uncared for.
It is devoid of the sprinkling of the joys of two small children. No toys lay unplayed with - forgotten there. There are no tossed-aside books, no crumpled up socks. Not even a crumb from a once-enjoyed snack.
This tiny corner is a space that is well-traveled, regularly used and yet, somehow, almost forgotten. We have failed to dirty this corner with the smatterings of our family.
If there were an art book or magazine designed to showcase what a tiny little corner 'should' look like, this tiny corner - our tiny corner - would be on the cover and the focal point. It is the very epitome of a tiny little corner.
It gives me hope that, in time, one day the rest of the house could look like this. That tiny little corner is the standard to which I hold the rest of our home against.
Though it sounds quaint, prim and almost-perfect, it does bear a mark or two. It serves a most practical purpose, a tad filthy even. But yet this area is so pristine.
I walk by the tiny corner. At least 40 times a day.
Each time it gives me hope.