(part 1)
She wipes down the kitchen counter until it shines. It's a point of pride that her kitchen is spotless. She takes the orange sponge to clean the counters whenever she enters the kitchen. Even if she's just getting a glass of water. Even if the counters are already clean. She glances over her shoulder on the way out, and her heart briefly smiles.
As she passes the entrance area, she notices the mess. Her daughter has kicked her shoes off, and thrown her coat down, making it impossible for someone to open the front door. This makes her mad.
Every day, all day, her daughter and her husband treat their home as if there is an invisible army of servants to pick up after them. Someone who follows them around, bringing everything they throw into the corner or leave behind back to where they belong. Cleaning the bathroom mirrors spattered with toothpaste. Scrubbing the toilets. Changing the sheets. Washing their clothes. Cooking their meals. Always. Always. Over and over. Endlessly.
They treat their home like it is nothing to treasure. Her home.
She goes over to the grandfather clock. Takes out the brass keg from the bottom right corner and slowly, delicately winds the spring clog. Another 24 hours.
Time to start making dinner. She stands outside her daughter's bedroom door and tells her she must empty out the dishwasher. She smiles; quality time with a teenager.
(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)
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