Lately, I’ve been thinking about
the spray can of lemon-scented
furniture polish my mother used
to carry with her through the house—
how she aimed, then easily wiped
away the film of dust that had
gathered on every surface that week.
We owned nothing fancy—no cedar
or mahogany—but she made those
particle board shelves and scuffed
Goodwill tables gleam with a few
swipes of her cloth. Now, when
steadiness and reason seem to have
faded from our world like the ink
on old photographs, I find a cloth
of my own and get to work, this
cleaning a kind of pledge I make:
I still care enough about this place
to try and help it shine.
—James Crews
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