Cleaning

I am getting restless with this winter thing. I sniff. With our home’s scent lingering of eau de snowpants, I am wishing for spring. Or even just a maid.

We’ve hunkered down beneath cozy blankets; we’ve been playing, working, creating and writing. And the house shows it. I try to keep up, but can’t seem to find a steady state. It’s no one’s fault. We do try. Well, except Aunt Entropy and her Old Man Winter, whom I wish would stop visiting. We don’t have a guest room you silly ones.

The Aunt is ever present in our lives, but it seems to be worse now, when she brings her Old Man along. We want to rest and be quiet. They visit more often this time of year and we get behind. Piles, stacks, heaps and mounds. Our stuff is not contained. It is unloved and shoved and pushed and that bothers me. The stacks topple and no one picks them up, not even me.

I am so longing for a fresh start, but it was that which brought me here. That which leaves many of my things still in boxes, gathering dust, waiting to be forgotten. If you look around, there is plenty of me in this home. I can’t really complain.

I want so much to live what I believe, to have only things I love or need. To have everything in its place and always returning to that place. I want to be free of the burden, yet still able to feel the cozy arms of a well-worm home.

But this Winter thing, it shoves me into the loveseat, props my feet up and tucks me into the blanket. Here, sit, rest, he says. I oblige, not wanting to offend nature.

I try to corral the chaos, as does my sweetheart. We try, together, but Winter is against us. Perhaps this is why they call it spring cleaning and not dead-of-winter-and-it-is-5-below cleaning.

Can I pour you another cup of tea?

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