Strange how the most mundane of tasks can conjure up the most deep-seated emotions. I hate dusting. Loathe it. I avoid it to the point of embarrassing myself. Dusting was my only childhood Saturday chore. It included taking of lamp shades outside and brushing them with a hand-broom, dusting not only the piano but also each of the individual black and white ivory keys; the tune of each key being stroked with the dust cloth sounding almost as angry as I felt. If I got it done quickly, ironically I'd still have plenty of time to play outside in the dirt making mud pies and cakes.
I woke today in a bit of a foul mood. The sky was gray and it was too chilly to do much outside. With no excuses left, I resigned myself to housework.
"No breakfast until your bed is made honey." Mama would wake me in the morning with the gentle reminder. She'd always serve a hearty breakfast (her favorite meal). She'd taught us how to make hospital corners with our top sheets and bed-spreads. I'd put my baby dolls leaned up against my pillow where they'd wait for me until after school.
At almost sixty years old it's like I can't function until I make the bed. "That'll make me feel better." Pulling up the bed-spread sans hospital corners, I looked it over with slight satisfaction. "Maybe I should change out the bed-spread for Summer."
After Daddy was diagnosed with dementia and cancer, Mama had purchased a beautiful red and blue quilted bed-spread. Daddy loved it. Every night when Mama tucked him in for bed he'd comment on how much he liked it as though it were the first time he'd ever seen it. "Well look how pretty this quilt is Jill", he'd smile at her as she smoothed it over his chest.
I walk downstairs to tidy up the bathroom (still avoiding the much-needed dusting). As I wipe the mirror, I look at my reflection. I see features of both of my parents, but in their middle-aged years. My face has lost any of it's youthful roundness and seems to have traveled to my middle. I have the arthritic ailments of my mother and the unruly hair of my father. "Allyson, just look at your Daddy's beautiful hands! Straight as can be and such pretty nails just the same as when he was young."
I leave the bathroom without mopping it. Another dreaded task I'll procrastinate for last. Doing the small amount of breakfast dishes by hand, I dry and put the last plate on the shelf. I poke my finger into the soil of the plant in the kitchen window sill. "I'll water the plants next." This takes a while. With no garden or yard to tend I have begun to accumulate an indoor nursery both upstairs and down. I water one plant upstairs and then water one down. This way I'm able to get more steps in, and it takes longer. While watering I notice some framed pictures on the floor. "Those really need to be dusted."
Back downstairs to get the dust-cloth and spray. I walk outside to shake any remaining dust out of the cloth. Standing on the deck, the feeling of rainy mist hits my face. "Shake! Shake! Shake the cloth!" Mama would tell me in her usual cheery voice as though it would make me more pleased about dusting. I vigorously shake the micro-fiber cloth. "I hate dusting." I walk back upstairs to give the framed pictures a quick going over. Tipping each one to lean on my legs I come across a painting of her. I am frozen. Such a beauty. I catch my breath. Slightly dizzy I sit down beside my bed and begin to weep. "I want my Mama." I cry the four words out loud and it feels good. I feel like a five-year-old child again, justified in my selfishness and my longing. "The hurt is so strong because love is so strong" echoes in my mind. Freya hears me from where she was napping and immediately comes to my side purring. This small act of kindness from a creature makes me smile. When I was a young child I'd sometimes cry to the point of getting a headache. Daddy would get a cool wet washcloth and gently place it over my face. It always worked.
"Okay Freya, let's go do the dusting." She was done doing her duty and leaped off the bed to go back to her bird-gazing at the window. I went to the computer to write these thoughts down, the dusting rag staring at me.
Mother's Day is approaching. Mama never like Mother's Day. She didn't like obligatory gifting. "Just be a good girl that's all I ever want." Purchasing a token gift is easy. Being a good girl is sometimes so difficult. She loved being a mother. She's the reason that that was all I ever wanted to do or be.
Whenever my phone would ring and I'd see her on my caller I.D. I'd know exactly what the first thing was she'd say to me. "Hello my darling." We'd have a good little visit about all the important and unimportant things. I'd tell her about how I hated dusting when I was little and why did she make that my chore. She'd chuckle and tell me that that was her chore when she was little too and that's why she had me do it so she didn't have to. And we'd talk and talk as I'd move around and do my dusting. She would tell me to write all these things in a journal so I don't forget.
Now it's late in the evening and I need to make some supper. I'll do the dusting while it's in the oven. Maybe.
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