There
is sacredness to the mundane task of cleaning her home.
She
slides the rectangle mop smoothly on the laminate floors,
fitting
it in the corners of the rooms, not an inch untouched.
The
way she fogs the bathroom mirror with her warm breath to
wipe
away dots left by splashed water and damp.
In
repeated delicate and feminine motions her hands to and fro sweeping
Half
a lemon to scrub the silver kitchen sink, letting it shine and sparkle.
In
brushing the tenacious acrylic paints from her pallet she finds a secret pleasure;
soaking
the stubborn colours in hot water, watching them rise, melting into one another,
a haze of a multi-hued storm… a gleaming pallet, a new painting tomorrow, another
chance to live.
