what a mess

you come in, you look at the mess that's around you and you get to work. hesitation is not in your vocabulary. some windex here, some pine-sol here, an empty trash bag there. no, i'm not the messiest person around, in fact i'm quite organized comparatively speaking, but still you manage to find ways to pick up after me. you find the things that have gone overlooked or went missing every other week. you find the dust ball that lingers behind the love-seat. you exterminate the cobwebs that have gathered on the tips of the under-used living room fan. you wave your wand over every petulance that could have ever existed on the crown moldings and on the crest of the staircase. somehow things get on the top of the kitchen cabinets, but still, they cannot escape your careful eye. the vacuum lines in the carpet tell your story. they scream that you will not give up on me. you will fight for orderliness until i am immaculate and unblemished. i thought i was clean, but somehow, i still managed to track in dirt... you tackled it. you moved into the den and with a swiffer you first absorbed the dust and grime, and then your gentle touch guided the mop, back and forth, back and forth, so that the foundation of my world would be polished. your gaze swept over the bookshelf, but you were undeterred. compartmentalizing each section--fiction, non-fiction, historical, romance, historical romance, mystery, even timeless literature-- your quiet patience dusted over each tightly bound book and the torn, yet still together paperbacks. i thought that was all that could possibly be done, but to you that was only the first floor. you fought your way up the stairs, scraping every nook and cranny with your sanitizer. the bathrooms are simple for you, nothing but a routine. shower, sink, faucet, mirror, toilet. all clean. but your kindness is especially apparent in the bedrooms, which you treat as individual sanctuaries. ever so gracefully, you vacuum the floors, wiping clean both the love and hurt that is experienced there in private. you make a deal with the carpet and it is refreshed. you move to the bed, laying the sheets and carefully manicuring the comforters and pillows, so that going to sleep means getting rest, and that is such an unexpected treat. the mahogany dresser and desk gleam with a new-found glaze. and just when i thought that you had done everything, that you had set me free of my neglected chaos, you set to work on my clothes. with the tenderness with which you fold some of my scattered garments and neatly replace them in the proper drawer and your attention to the detail that is my form of o.c.d. as you adorn my closet with my most adored wardrobe, organized by color and type, your appreciation for their purpose is transparent. to you, they are my protection, my warmth, my shelter. like a prayer a transgressor, you alone bring restoration to my place of refuge. i thought i was clean, but still you pick up after me. you have memorized the locations to which my things belong, however insignificant, and you never miss a beat. you know it all. despite how tiresome and unrewarding it may seem to some, you take your role seriously. your attitude is servitude. you are often under-appreciated, but still you give. i will never deserve it, but this is your perpetual gift to me. the gift that keeps on giving. your love is manifested in the candle that is lit to delightfully intoxicate my sense of smell. you welcome me home to a clean house and you promise to return.

...you are our cleaning lady and you come early tomorrow morning, so now i have to go to sleep.