Dust. It’s everywhere around here. On these pages, in my head, in my joints. Tiny collections of the past that should weigh nothing but combined it’s an army that blankets, its presence a reminder of things undone or unsaid or uncommitted to.
As a kid we had chores on weekends and my favorite one was to dust the furniture. The sickly smell of Lemon Pledge signaled improvement and when it lingered in the air it meant things were clean. Wiping the wood with the dust cloth and revealing the warmth and shine and luxury covered by that hazy layer was somehow a middle school triumph. I turned something dull, something less, into something radiant.
I don’t like that this space has dust on it. There are years of things I wish I had captured – enough for a book – and I regret letting the details fade and the pages of those stories get yellow. I regret letting other people be my memory. I’ve given away too many pieces of the memories I wish I had right now. I’m concerned I don’t own them anymore, that I might forget.
So, I’m a bit like the Tin Man right now. I’m trying to oil up my joints, my creativity to get back to capturing things, to doing things.
I’m not sure how much dust is here, but I’m pretty good with a dust rag.