When I was a young girl, I remember crawling on my hands and knees across the living room floor. I was picking up little bits and pieces of the debris that covered the carpet. We didn’t have a working vacuum cleaner, but I wanted that floor clean. I moved with the slow determination of a glacier. I was unstoppable, my little hands clearing away life’s rubble.
I stood panting in the middle of the room, surveying my work. My knees were gray and scratched. My hands were streaked with dust, my fingernails were black. My body was coated in a glaze of sweat and cat hair, but all that mattered was the floor looked clean.