Making My Mark

Pushed through the cracked back door into the mudroom. Done with the drafty porch. Indoor territory again. Near the paper bin sat a thick wax crayon snapped in half. Blunt blue cylinder. I shoved it with my stubby foot. It skidded across a scrap of flat cardboard, leaving a dark waxy streak on the brown paper. Hmph. It makes marks. I squared up. Clamped the stub between both nubs and leaned my whole weight down. Scrape. Dragged it hard against the cardboard grain in one stubborn curve, then another. Wax squeaked. A jagged, heavy spiral stared right back at me. Stomped both feet on the board. My crest. My floor now.