Skinjo: One Broom, Two Tones of Besom

The last evening light catches the dust on the step. Skinjo sweeps it into a small, uncooperative crescent, then stops and leans on the old twig broom.

“Besom!”

Sharp. The word seems to arrive with a pointing finger. Even the broom looks accused.

Skinjo waits, loosens the mouth, tries again.

“Besom.”

Fond this time: a smile tucked into the first syllable, the ending allowed to linger. Same sounds, different welcome. Skinjo listens to the little silence after each version, then laughs. “Well. One of those gets invited in.”

In Scots, besom can be a term of contempt for a person; it can also turn into a teasing endearment. A “wee besom” may be mischievous rather than unwelcome. The voice does considerable work—and affection still needs someone willing to hear it that way.

The word has carried rougher things than dust: bundles of rods used for punishment, twig brooms, the poetic force of something sweeping all before it. Here, for a moment, it carries only breath.

Skinjo looks down at the bristles, their ends bent from useful work, and resumes sweeping. The crescent breaks apart. The step comes clean.

The broom has done nothing to deserve either tone.