Behold! Look upon my kingdom and despair.
Take in the magical doom of the dirty dishes in the sink. Like Sisyphus who must push a rock up a hill for an eternity, the dishes never get completely done. It does not matter how many hours I spend at said sink. The dishes return every morning, seeming to have multiplied like rabbits highballing Viagra.
My living room is a minefield of toy parts, half worn phone chargers, and cat hair that sticks to thy pants as a leach sucking blood from an unconscious host. Underneath all of that, little scraps of paper create the polka dot effect that only the damned of this pandemic can see. Those dots of trash mock me, and my soul screams silently.
For months my family has been imprisoned in this house. One day bleeds into another creating a timeless loop of destruction. I have once heard of a clean place; a place where there is no constant mess around me. Oh, to be in such a place once again! I remember! I remember! ‘Tis but a distant fragment, but I remember.
I remember a time when my wife would go to work in the morning after I had cooked her breakfast. She would smile; I remember the smile! ‘Twas beautiful and it made me feel…I cannot recall the word. Free? Content? Loved in a house that I would only have to clean once a day? I do not know, but I know the feeling. Like butterflies on a warm spring day. But now? Now that smile is hidden behind a mask as much as my wife is hidden upstairs in her home office.
And the kids! The kids! They would throw open the door every morning to catch the school bus. Laughter was the music of my life, and backpacks bouncing with books were the percussion that it was set to. And then, the joy of silence would ring around my house.
But now? Now, ‘tis all but a dream. A dream that is the nightmare of a home that is never clean.
I have tried, oh dear traveler of my misery, I have tried! The battle loomed early on and I gathered my cleaners, brushes, and my scrubs. To thine elbows I did scrub! I swear it to be true, lest you judge me too harshly. There was a time where my toilets sparkled, and my windows gave way to sunshine. However, the mess would never disappear. I am only able to hold it at bay, but perhaps, no more.
They are all here. All the time, they are here. With their shoes not put away, nor their dishes picked up from the table. Crumbs fall from them as if fairy dust marking the way for others to follow. The ceiling has developed a case of cobwebs that sway in the wind provided by the fan. And the bathroom? The bathroom is the pit of despair with poo stains and the smell of cat. Somewhere, hidden in that darkness, are two boys that can’t seem to get the pee inside the toilet and play the rimshot like a heavy metal drummer.
I slide upon the floors as an ice skater at the Olympics. I pirouette upon my doom with my arms swaying for some balance. Through the dust I glide, dead skin cells that stick to every surface like glue to more glue. I dance through the gloop as if I am celebrating my gloom. It is not glamourous.
At times throughout the never-ending day, I visit all the places I used to call my own. In days of yore, I would write fables, stories, and epic stanzas of heroes fighting back the impossible. Now those workspaces are covered in the weeds of others; overgrown vines that have reclaimed all that was mine. My office is now her office. My writing chair belongs to the teenager. The quiet spot by the window is an unholy place with leftover cups, plastic bits of trash, and another teenager that is having a hard time with math. The couch has crayons on it, around it, and in it. The kitchen table is as sticky as a fly trap and my hopes and dreams are smothered. There is Nutella, but alas there is no bread.
Behold my kingdom and weep.
And then the Roomba came. A bright light sent from the great beyond. The automatic vacuum cleaner does not talk back. It never says, “just a minute.” The Roomba does not know the definition of it’s not my fault. The Roomba is my cleaning savior.
It requires only a docking station and a simple command. One that I thought was lost in my vocabulary. “Clean,” I said, and it did, and I cried. It charged forth on its steed of an electric motor and fought the great beast. Underneath the table it picked up the edges of crust cut off a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. In the kitchen, it scoured the corners of cabinets and in the living room it sliced through the polka dots. And slowly, as if by magic, I could see my house clean yet again.
It will not last because nothing this year can last. I’m so ready for my entire dirty family to go back into the world and to leave mine in peace. With my sidekick programmed to start at 7 am every morning, perhaps there is hope. There is light. There is clean.
Dreams can come true, and sometimes those dreams are a little vacuuming robot.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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