cleaning up after ourselves.

I did it. I scrubbed my favorite apartment ever down from floor to ceiling. I think I only cried once. I found corners and dustbunnies I had no idea existed. I swept wood floors more times than I want to admit. I showered without a shower curtain in order to scrub more thoroughly. I crawled under the bed cubby and ran out of paper towels half-way through the windows and mirrors. Oh well, can’t be perfect.

It started on Tuesday, in full force. Sure, before that, Greg had done some work on the floors and cabinents—and, thankfully, all of our stuff was already headed South on Alaska Marine Lines. But seriously. It was up to me to bring home that security deposit, a final lynchpin in our plans. It was like stumbling around a spooky fun house. Everywhere I looked there seemed be a monstrous project. Where to begin? The wood floors? The bathroom? The freezer (what is in that yogurt container?) or fridge?

And just when I’d start to feel like I had it under control, I’d find something else—the junk drawer full of tools, the wood stove I’d completely forgotten would need a thorough clean, soot and all.

At one point, one of the new neighbors from Florida actually offered to help me. I must have looked pathetic. And the next day the other neighbor asked me if cleaning really is a full time job? He meant it as kind chit-chat, but it felt like a scathing attack on my inability to finish this project.