Morning Sweeping- something I wrote in college

 Nancy Sherwood

 

Ms. Horan

 

English 396

 

March 18, 2002

 

 

Morning Sweeping

 

 

The last one is out the door.  That’s my eleven year old.  His yellow bus has driven off with him, so I turn back into the house and look critically at everything.  I wonder where to start.  Ever the procrastinator, I start with a cup of hot coffee and the morning paper.  My ritual involves reading the Metro section, first for the snippets about the area-accidents and murders mostly, divided up by state and the District.   Then on to the obituaries.  I feel somehow vindicated when someone has lived a long life and left many survivors.  And I feel sad if there are “no known survivors.”  

Folding up the newspaper I stack it onto the dividing wall, straightening the pages my husband has read.  He folds them unevenly.  It’s like origami to me. Next I empty the dishwasher putting everything that is shiny clean in its place.  I wipe off the place mats, getting the wet cereal off before it hardens and needs to be chiseled off. Can’t stack wet place mats, so I put each one on the chair at its own place.  Spraying the table with Murphy’s oil soap I smile.  The smell is just the right smell for cleaning a wooden table.  A kitchen table anyway.   Wiping and washing.  The dirty dishes have been put into the dishwasher, I wipe the counter.  Wiping the clean back into the surfaces and smelling the clean too.  It’s my aromatherapy.  Next comes the floor.  I sweep all the dust, crumbs, dog and cat hair and all of the debris of everyday living that goes on in this kitchen.  I make little piles of fluff with my broom.  The bristles bring out surprises from under the stove and the refrigerator.  A permission slip that sneaked under the fridge flies out when the bristles slide past.  An old dead piece of potato has been living under the stove until my broom brings it forth too.  It is hard to get anyone to understand the peace and joy in seeing the debris that I sweep up and toss out.  I find it a small but very real satisfaction.  The broom and dust pan are my tools.  The house, my home, is my palette and my tools help me make my art.  

I fill the kitchen sink with hot water and ammonia and get the mop.  The sponge on the mop is hard and dried out, the water revives it and it goes to work.  Skating across the floor making wet places.  My own Zamboni of sorts.  I drive the mop.  Make a clean streak.  Put the mop in the sink and squeeze out the dirt.  Over and over I pass the mop until the whole floor is clean.  I admire the dirty water in the sink.  I thrill at the dirt swirling away.  I feel so at peace with this clean space.  

I sit down and feel calm and full and harmonious.

 

 

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