Eraser

There are marks on my walls. They trail down the hall like the tail of an unruly comet. In the closet they are more compact, an imploding black hole of brown crayon. In another place, the marks are a delicate blue on the pale pink wall, a singular flower of concentric, yet irregular circles gracing the space just above a toy box.

There are marks, long and thin and leisurely, and fat ones, staccato and powerful, everywhere. On the walls. The lines are drawn in crayon, pen, marker, and if I am lucky, pencil. These are the easiest marks to remove. There is hardly the need to try, those pencil marks disappear so easily, although, once removed, there is always a faint smudge of black, almost like a bruise that couldn't muster enough zest to look anything more than dirty. I can, and do, remove these marks frequently, but in a couple of days, they inevitably return, usually in a more grandiose fashion, thanks to the abundance of easily accessible pencils my son can find around the house.

But the others, the pen and the marker ones, those are tricky. Or, they simply don't come off at all. They stay on my walls and taunt me every time I walk by them on the way to the laundry room. I have tried Windex and a magic eraser, but at best, the thicker marks fade almost imperceptibly. I think about how I need to find time to paint over them, every time I pass them, but that time hasn't come.

So, the marks remain, all in some fashion, either as a bold mark of stubbornness, or a weak version of something that was much more impressive, or the one that is only a gritty spot on the wall. These marks sometimes infuriate me, because they simply make every surface imperfect. Imperfect. I can fight to take them away, but the ghost of them remains, or they return like arrogant soldiers.

I often chase Ethan down the hall and wring a pencil out of his hand before he does more damage. Sometimes I don't make it in time. It's the way of it. To fight for perfect is like fighting windmills. I remember my mother saying, when I was a little girl, she wanted to paint over some of my pencil drawings on the wall. My grandmother (who always did favor my messy state of being as a child, with my pants twisted and my hair falling out of its braids) told her don't. That those pictures meant something.

Sometimes I think I am wasting away waiting on perfect. I think of my mistakes, things gone wrong, words I have said or  thoughts that I have had that I can't take back. They are all like marks on a wall. They stand, taunting me as only pencil smudges can do, saying, I am here to make sure you are not perfect. I really have been put in my place by them, the incessant marks. I face my imperfection in sad acceptance.

I am standing, staring down a new mark on my wall, armed with a new Magic Eraser. Mr. Clean is still etched in the foam, but soon I will turn him into a grimy sliver of synthetic muck in order to get the mark. Then Ethan comes up beside me. He says funny things, like, "Mommy, what is your favorite word?"

"Love", I say, "because I love you. What's your favorite word?"

"Poopie," he says through a mischievous smile, and runs down the hall. I see a pencil clutched behind his back.

Imperfect. But the marks. They mean something.