Without warning, an orange meteor streaks through my atmosphere, gravity pulling it toward my meal. Tremors upon impact, a steaming crater left in its wake. Ejecta of hot fowl and sauce leave red streaks in its wake. My shirt, pants, chair, couch, walls, carpet bear witness of it's passing. Waves of tension force their way from throat, Aarrggh!
Following the trajectory back along it's course, a little boy stands. His lip trembles, eyes wide at the havoc his ball has caused. For brief seconds he stands froze, for him an eternity, then he runs to his room.
In those moments, when we know our mistakes have caught us, we run. Fleeing certain doom for an uncertain future. Hiding away, hoping that it will just go away. Or maybe if we act like it never happened, it really didn't and no one will notice. Heavy guilt remains shackling us to our shame. Or maybe it was daddy's fault for eating in the living room, if only he hadn't...then I wouldn't...we run from responsibility as well.
Its was just a mistake. You did not do it on purpose. Daddy is sorry for yelling out. Words whispered into hair, his body pressed into a hug. We all make mistakes, it's what we do with them that makes all the difference in the world. I love you. Sorry dad.
(Thanks mommy for cleaning it up.)