It collects in pockets,
on the edge of photo frames,
the sediment of sentimentality.
It gathers in the stillness of breath
waiting for your finger,
to trace an outline.
Cleaning is an exercise in utility,
every obliteration a momentary rejuvenation
time-travelling back to before we were old,
to before there was just
dust.
Background:
My two-year-old daughter was taking a nap at my parents’ place, and as I watched her blissfully sleeping, I noticed a dusty table that had been there forever.
My parents’ place is a reservoir of memories. Going home is always comfortable, but at the same time tinged with a sense of things slowly slipping away, even as they remain solid, permanent in your hand.
