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Nail Polish, Carpet, and Coming Clean: A Lent Reflection

Right in the middle of the threshold to the master bathroom on the blue carpet was a handprint put there by my third child. If he put there on purpose, I could not know. If it was an accident, it was of the serendipitous kind for it was perfect. There were no other spots around it just the impression of a palm and five fingers. It was the color of fresh blood but it wasn’t blood. It was nail polish which is weird because I haven’t been much into polishing nails unless someone else does it for me. I can’t imagine I left the Sinful Color out to tempt my little ball of energy, but I guess I did. He must have had quite a bit of alone time to paint a whole hand with that tiny brush. 

I didn’t dare touch the handprint on the carpet thinking trying to remove the stain would only make it worse. The thinking was faulty, of course, because it would have most likely made it a smear had I messed with it; it would have changed from the perfect little print of a five-year-old's hand to something…

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