Skipping over my parents apparently, I’m turning directly into my grandmother, or so it seemed the other night when I was bending over to pick up some pieces of lint on the carpet. It brought me instantly back to my childhood, though with a decidedly more strained pain in my back and stiff legs. This was how my grandmother used to go about cleaning the carpet floors when we were kids. Back then, I marveled at her patience, and unwillingness to simply drag out the vacuum, as much as I marveled at how much cleaner the floors looked when she was done. It was my first lesson in the importance of a clean palette, and how lovely a spotless floor appeared, especially when we were accustomed to it being cluttered with toys and debris.
Like my grandmother, I find a certain satisfaction in cleaning things with thorough and detailed purpose, and as I bent down to pick up another piece of lint from the carpet, I felt her fastidious spirit flow through my Virgo hands. The magic of this carpet moment was merely, and magnificently, a memory – the mundane action of life reminding me of those who had gone.
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