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Writing Photography Past Projects Interact Artists |
Hon We started cleaning the house around eight last night, first just picking up and bagging all of the trash we found. We filled eleven trash bags, not the huge black contractor bags, the little white ones for your kitchen trash, but still, eleven. Then she started cleaning the kitchen while I sorted laundry; she said she’d do the laundry while I was at school tomorrow. When I finished, I came downstairs to fetch her and bring her back up with me. “What?” “Kisses?” “Okay, kisses.” She gave me a few quick kisses and went back to loading the dishwasher. “More kisses?” “Fine. More kisses.” The same result. “Babe, will you please go and organize the games and movies?” “OK.” We were up until midnight cleaning. Today would be the first time in a few weeks that I would come home to a clean house. I was looking forward to seeing the product of our efforts displayed upon opening the door. As I pushed the front door inward, it bounced off the powder room door and smacked me a good one in the nose. This didn’t bother me, though; I was too determined to not allow my anticipation and then satisfaction to be spoiled. The next attempt with the door was successful, but this time, my mood was spoiled. Every door in sight was open, and from each doorknob hung a bra. Over all the doors were pants; even the indoor/outdoor grill, two lamps, and a light switch had clothes hanging from them. The banisters sported sheets and the kitchen tablecloth. “Hon, why is my house covered in laundry?” “Heehee.” Her feet kicked and thudded against the stairs; her shoulders jiggled about, and her hips danced back and forth across the stairwell. She was like a dog running to greet its owner, and when she arrived in the foyer, she nuzzled he head against my shoulder and face. “Well, the stuff didn’t really completely dry in the dryer, and we didn’t have enough quarters to dry them more, so I just figured I’d hang them up, but I’m already using my drying rack outside to hang the bathroom floor mats, and I couldn’t find your drying rack anywhere, so. . . . I love you!” “I love you, too.” She leapt up on me, even though I still held my books in one arm. Her jump was too low, and her legs wrapped around my upper thighs. She laughed as she started sliding down and leapt backwards. Her thickly padded and calloused feet made only the softest noise as they touched down gently on the tile, landing without disturbing her sense of balance. I reached out and pet her hair, and she nuzzled her head against my hand. “I love you; I miss you. Oooooh!” She was back on me. This time she’d managed secure a rough grip on my waist, and her thin arms clung to my neck, her nails sticking themselves to my back. I managed to hold her up long enough to reach the table where I set her and my books down. Seeing that both my arms were now free, she shimmied herself off the table and leapt up once again, almost taking out my back with the force of her body. “Hon, you may be small, but my back can’t take too much of this.” She dropped her feet to the floor, and released my shoulders. She tucked her face into her shoulders, turning away a few inches, and sniffled dryly a few times, letting out a whimper at the end. “Sorry, Lovey.” “It’s ok, Hon.” |
All original material © 2003 Erika Salomon.
