6 November 2025 @marinnewest's Freewrite Writing Prompt Day 2913: Sweep.

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This is my post on #freewriters2913 #dailyprompt sweep hosted by @marinnewest's. The broom was older than the village, its handle blackened by generations of palms, bristles frayed into wiry ghosts. Every dawn, Mama Nkechi rose before the roosters and began the sweep. Not for cleanliness—dust returned faster than breath—but for memory. She started at the threshold, where her mother had died mid-sentence, mid-laugh. The grains of harmattan sand still carried that unfinished sound. Sweep, sweep, the bristles whispered, pushing yesterday toward the gate. Past the mango tree her husband planted the year the rains failed. Past the spot where her first child took his first step, then his last breath at seven. Children watched from doorways, barefoot, silent. They knew better than to interrupt the ritual. When Mama Nkechi reached the village square, the sweep changed rhythm. Here the dust was thicker—market day memories, spilled palm oil, lovers' quarrels, the blood of the goat sacrificed when the chief's daughter wed. One morning, a boy dared to ask, "Mama, why sweep what the wind brings back?" She paused, broom mid-arc. "Because some things must be moved by hand, not wind. Some grief too heavy for air." That evening, she didn't return. The broom stood propped against the hut, bristles finally still. The village swept itself that night—every compound, every path—until dawn found them exhausted, palms blistered, the ground pristine. Mama Nkechi's body lay beneath the mango tree, smiling at roots. In her rigid fingers: a single fresh bristle, newly grown.