Thursday, August 6, 2009

Gummy in spots

(Pre-Script: This post cleans up if you read it while listening to the song, "Landslide," #19 on the playlist, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come backa nd resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

It's been a week and you still haven't called but today I am mopping the floor. You still haven't called, and mopping is not a difficult chore, and you still haven't called, but on a paricularly gummy spot, I stop and scrub longer than the rest of the floor, I even bend over to get into it, because I really want that spot on the floor to be clean already, to be free of the gummy substance that got stuck there. I mop in barefooted feet, barefooted feet are better at feeling where they are in the world, on the floor in my kitchen where you are not and where you are not calling me, either, but oh what, another grimy spot, and isn't it funny all the gunk you can step in or step over day after day and never notice until you are trying to scrub it, trying to scrub it away and having a difficult time of it. It is not a crime to mop the grunge away, to work the sponge with my hands and arms and put my back into it, and every muscle I can feel, until my heart is pounding and my floor is shining. When I am finished mopping, I rinse out the mop; you may never call again, but I put the mop just outside the back door to dry out in the sun, and when it is dry, I will bring it back in and put it away.


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