Go Ahead and Dust
I avoid dusting. It was one of my jobs growing up. I was supposed to dust the shelves in the living room once a week. I was as dramatic then as I am now so you can imagine my dismay every week come dusting time. If my mom didn't remind me, you better bet dusting didn't happen. Of the times I did dust, I cheated half. I dusted around the five dozen music boxes and trinkets that lined the shelves. I skipped the corners and the shelves that were too tall to meet the eyes. I had better things to do.
The girls and I are at my parents house for the week. I plan on visiting my Meme who I never see. Saturday will be my class reunion. I'll travel twenty years back to poofy hair where we all existed in caricature form. I'm going to store up mom and pop, sibling, niece and nephew time because soon the school year schedule will hold us hostage again.
Mom had day surgery today. I decided to spruce up the house a bit before she got back. I swept and mopped and ran a load of dishes. I straightened pillows. I opened the curtains feeling rather pleased.
Sunlight revealed shelves lined with dust urging my attention.
Rather than ignore what had been exposed, I grabbed the bottle of Old English dabbing drops of lemon oil onto my rag getting set for my work.
After cheating on an entire shelf I decided to do right. I began to pick up every trinket swiping underneath. I dusted under the wooden church music box with the broken cross steeple (a result of my dusting). I was reminded of our many trips to the San Francisco Music Box Company to pick out something for mom for Christmas.
Beyond the dust-lined shelves are memories like the one of my dad crawling, with me on his back, to my room at bedtime. And that memory leads to thoughts of how thirsty I always seemed to be when I got into bed, "I need a drink of water!".
Working through the dust was heart-filling; so much so that I dusted the Grand Piano. It stands firm on large carved legs; a familiar backdrop to pictures growing up.
On it, I dusted little faces captured just a year or two ago of a new generation. I was struck by the hard fact that time pays no heed to my wish that my kids remain kids.
Today I didn't forget to dust. Mom didn't have to remind me. And I didn't cheat. I removed all the dust and went back to the place where I was formed; a place I love. I let waves of sweet and sad wash over me.
As I hold tight to these uncovered memories, I know that busyness and the dust will return.
Still, I'll take the time,no shortcuts, to dust again. Because sometimes there's nothing better to do, than remember.
Sometimes, he sighed, "I think the things I remember are more real than the things I see." -Arthur Golden
