Cleaning and Dreaming

It rained a little during the night — not much, but enough to lighten, maybe even leaven the air, as if the clouds, instead of moving in from the west, arrived from the yeast. Either way, the crust has been dampened, and life is more than a cabaret, it’s a boulangerie.

In all but two bedrooms, I dusted and mopped our new floor, which, save for a speck here and there, wasn’t dirty at all. Yet now when I walk on it with my bare feet, I find the difference astonishing. I did more than clean. I took my time, noticed and enjoyed what I was doing, and so I also cleaned myself.

This implies, of course, that I was dirty. And maybe I was. For the first time in a very long time, I awoke late, at five o’clock, in the middle of what turned out to be the end of a nightmare, in which someone I’ve known all my life was avoiding me for the obvious, unspoken reason that he knew he was dying. He didn’t want to talk about it. The setting was strange: one instant it was in a forested area, the next it was in an odd, unfamiliar building, then it was on an open road. Now, though, I can’t help wondering if I’m making up some or most of the details. Once out of bed, I made a small cup of coffee, had something to eat, and went out for a run. I felt fine after that. Then I enjoyed a nice shower, ending with cold water as I like to do — not icy, mind you, but far from warm — and dried off, thinking how nice it would be to mop the floor.

And so maybe I wasn’t dirty, and only in need of a bit of fresh air and leavening. Looking at my crust now, with its moles and age spots, I might also need an undertaker — or he might need me, for a little cheering up. Don’t worry about it, old friend, I don’t take it personally at all. You know I’d do the same for you. I always keep my mop and bucket handy.

[ 2064 ]