Cleaning Day

"Great," one more thing that needs my attention. She stopped in the kitchen, looked at the white sink full of dirty dishes, looked at the marbled countertops covered in old mail, then she looked at the deep blue kitchen table with purposeful mix-matched chairs, HGTV style, covered with dead petals. She began to question the existence of responsibility that piled before her. She wanted to clean, but she also wanted to embrace the few hours of solitude.

It was the first Saturday where she was alone. The kids had practice and her husband went into the office to work. It was like a surprise gift to shuffle everyone up and out at the same time. High School. Once a foreign concept showed her that practice on a Saturday was real. She didn’t have to sit in the stands. Her children were watching out for each other. So she was alone in the house because the home blew up when she had kids sixteen months apart with a wonderfully creative husband who’s hours were always to be announced.

She stood there peering at the debris of another explosion trying to figure out what to salvage.

“Coffee. Nothing happens without coffee.” She rubbed her hands across her low cut curls and made her motivation.

Mission 1: The Dishes

She moved on autopilot. Scrubbing. Rinsing. Drying. She told herself that she wouldn’t do another Saturday of kitchen duty. They needed to do it. It was their job, but she saved them too much.

“I have to do better,” she whispered with enough force she convinced herself.

Her fingers wrinkled before she was finished. She put everything away, satisfied with a task complete, and smiled at her marigolds. In return, another petal floated to the table.

“Right--No Time. Keep moving.”

Her eyes danced away from the table and into the living room where the mountain awaited. She told her husband to do the laundry, and he did. Then he put all of it on the sofa.

“Cuz folding clothes for a family of four is exactly what I wanted to do today.” Her words were flat and calm. She jumped when the towels moved and burst into laughter. She forgot the dog was home.

“Guess I’ll take him out at some point. Hey Alexa, play ``Giving You the Best that I’ve Got by Anita Baker.”

The black cylinder glowed, repeated the words, and played the song. She smiled. Finally there was something in the house that listened without complaining. She folded and sang. Changed the song. Folded and sang.

“Ok Whitney Houston, help me out.”

Her hips swayed as she belted I’m Every Woman stacking towels in the linen closet and putting socks in drawers. I Wanna Dance With Somebody guided her through hanging up shirts and folding the sheets. She was nowhere near Whitney’s voice, but she was alone and didn’t care how she sounded because she was getting stuff done. She was feeling good until she walked back into the kitchen to put away Halloween dish towels and saw the flowers. Six more petals fell.

They added life to the kitchen, but time was fleeting. Beauty was fading. She touched her face wondering…Am I enough? Is this it?

The sink was empty. The counters cleared. The mail she avoided was mostly circulars. Easy Fix--trash’em. But the table. The conversation piece in the center of a grey and white space was begging to get in a word. The unattended fallen reminders from the last two weeks looked at her, but she couldn’t. Not now. There was more of the same waiting. She sighed, looked at the clock, looked at her list, and kept moving.

“Thank God he dusts. Guess I’ll tackle the bathroom.” She sauntered to the hall bathroom; it was clean. He actually got the kids to do it. She was grateful she only had two, so she walked into her bathroom. A tear formed. She felt silly, yet let it fall.

“Hey, Alexa, play Lovely Day by Bill Withers.”

She twirled in the bathroom as more tears fell. She didn’t know why they were coming so fast, but she gave up holding them in. She cried. The hard, blubbering, snotty cry. She gripped her counter to brace herself as her body shook with sobs. She was happy, but so tired. She took a day off last week because she was exhausted. Her fifth graders would have to be alright because she wasn’t. Her husband noticed long enough to leave the house and come back with pizza, marigolds, and a bottle of wine. He did well with reaction.

The memory faded. She looked at her puffy eyes in the mirror and for the first time in a long time, she felt balanced, hopeful; she felt like herself. She lit a candle, ran a bath, then walked back into the kitchen.

The table was calling her. The subtle reminders of the last few days scattered on her place mats. She went to sit. Stopped, grabbed the trash can, and threw it all away. .

“Ha!” Her laugh was refreshing and startling. She was still balanced.

The table stopped yelling at her as she walked back to her bathroom. The water was just high enough to reach her chin.

“Hey Alexa, play My Life by Mary J. Blige. She squeezed herself, closed her eyes, and smiled.