There must be something about seeing the never-stepped-on, brand-new grass, or the yard swept clean of leaves by the wind, or the pines washed by the rain. Perhaps it's the example set by Nature sprucing up her world, but it's contagious. Down through the ages, women have cleaned house in the spring, and it probably started with women throwing out the accumulated bones and cold ashes from the cave after being cooped in all winter. Whatever it is, I'm in its grip, albeit grateful that it's an acute case and not a chronic condition. Windows, curtains, comforters all in the process of being washed. Nooks neglected in the dim light of winter are being dusted. The collected pieces of pressed glass sparkle on the sills. For a long time after Steve died I went through the motions, but hated the house when it gleamed and everything was in its place...it was like getting ready for a party that no one would attend. Time does heal, and now I find just a tremendous satisfaction in the routine of spring cleaning for itself. Those things that used to be ours have gradually become mine alone. There is pleasure in walking through rooms and seeing them shine. Knowing me, I'll probably become complacent again about the layers of dust that summer brings daily, and lackadaisical about mopping, but right now I'll go on with spring cleaning.
The pedestrian vultures have gathered for a conclave in the front drive this morning and the dozen or so attendees are spreading their wings in their ritual to greet the sun. Latecomers float down quietly and join in. All four of the Mafia Boys dined here last night. I don't know where Carmine has been, but for now all's right in my (clean) world.