I should be resting, I know, now while they don’t know what’s making me woozy and weak
but I need to do something when I’m not used to lying here idle,
and I’ve got friends coming soon. I’m looking forward to seeing them, ever so much.
Cleaning’s not an urge I get often, so when the urge comes, I’ll take it.
Broom, plastic bag, recycle bin, check. Storage bins, maybe,
and at least I can put stuff into piles so I’ve got some idea. I can make lists. I like lists.
I can’t forget a fan, a bandana, an open window,
a tall glass of water. It is mid-July and even with the rain of this morning, it’s awfully humid.
Still, it’s more than time that I got on top of things.
The financial papers– so long unlooked-at for that wave of panic at all things legal-financial
are all scattered across bags and boxes. At least I can put them into one box,
condense them into one place Pandora, and Hope that I can deal with it soon.
And the old clothes from the old job I’ll never go back to, the ones that need cleaning–
the ones I’ll do what with? Sell? Give away? I’m not sure I can afford the dry-cleaner’s bill for them all.
At least they can go into bags to shove into the closet until the company’s gone.
The winter clothes I’m going to keep can go into containers and down into the basement, Christmas ornaments too.
The dust and dirt can be swept and tossed if I’m careful about leaning over– take things deliberately.
The books can be sorted into keep and not-keep. Sell or donate– that I can decide a little bit later.
The party clothes from last summer’s weddings– the ones I barely made my way through,
so miserable as I was, heavier in body and soul as I pasted a smile on and wished them the best–
I’ll send those to the cleaner’s, they won’t fit any more, meta- or physically.
I’ve changed, for better or worse, and at least I’m aware of that fact.
This last year’s at least brought self-consciousness to me,
even if happiness is still something I’m chasing.
Clarity– or groping towards it, I guess comes first in the effort.
And for something to be clear, you do have to move the clutter off of the surface,
wipe off the grime, sweep off the mouse-scamper of I-am-afraid-and-don’t-make-me-face-it.
My jewelry box is also a mess– lots of pins I won’t wear again on suits I won’t use,
lots of pieces my mother gave me that I never did like and never did wear– except when she was here,
sometimes, and not even then, because it wasn’t my taste and she never did learn.
A small part of me wants to throw all of it out, since right now I’m angry,
but there are pieces I do like and which sometimes I wear. Just because I need a break
doesn’t mean I have to toss every gift she ever gave. Some were quite valuable– I do know that much.
And that red suit, and maybe the bright cobalt blue. I could have them tailored to fit my new, smaller frame.
Most of them should probably go. I could use the space and could get rid of some emotional baggage.
But I always suspected a spic-and-span house. Why should I toss all of my past, when not all of it’s painful?
And if some of it stays in a box for just a bit longer– well–
I’m still going to pat myself on the back for the condensation of things, and the fact that I even looked at
it to begin with and I know that it’s there. I’ll deliberate upon it some more as I make room for my friends.