Tears While Dusting

46 years of housework – wonder just how many times I’ve run the vacuum, loaded a washing machine, cooked a meal, done the dishes, swept a sidewalk, dusted the furniture? Since we’ve lived in four apartments and nine houses and raised two children the numbers are probably mind-boggling. 

Most of this activity is pretty automatic at this point and some weeks some of it doesn’t get done at all. Now it’s just the two of us (and one small dog) in a small house. Retirement gives me the option to skip a few things if I feel like doing something else.

But, after we put away the holiday decorations this year it was definitely time for a good cleaning. So out came the vacuum and the dust rag. I turned on the radio and began to make my way through each room.

And then the sadness “hit”. Amazing how grief can creep up on you – even after several years. Both of our moms died a few years ago and we think of them often and fondly. Certain triggers will bring a smile or a comment or a lump in the throat. (They always loved sharing the holidays!)

But today, dusting, for me it was a bit more. In our living room is a desk – the first nice piece of furniture that my mom got when she married my father – it’s “battle scarred” with scratches and the leather top is dry – but it sits in our front window and I am usually seated there at some point during the day. In our bedroom is a small settee- one that Dave remembers was in his mom and dad’s bedroom. He and his little brother would run in on Saturday morning to sit there as their sleepy parents woke to start the day.

There are other small things – a painting over Dave’s desk, a wooden angel hanging over the dining room window, a bronze elephant standing on the floor by the fireplace, one of my mom’s small oil paintings of a scene in Sweden, the ceramic frog spoon holder on my stove, the orange Swedish horse on the bookshelf, a beautiful mirror in our entryway, a coffee cup that states “Love Me I’m Swedish” in the kitchen cupboard, the  sterling silver coffee scoop we use every morning to brew a pot.

All of these things could have gone in a garage sale as we settled our mom’s estates – but instead they came home with us. And today while I dusted the tears filled my eyes. Why? I don’t know – just the moment I guess…..just a tug on the heartstrings….a remembering. 

Grief is funny, lasting, hits you at odd moments. But I guess that’s also a healing thing. If I didn’t have any tears to shed that might indicate that the two small holes in my heart have healed over completely….and that will never happen.

So I’ll dust these items, or take them out of the dishwasher, or vacuum around them, or sit on/at them and remember… and usually I’ll smile.