Spring Cleaning

"You should find a smaller place," everyone told me. They meant I would be happier without all of the things to remind me of Anna. True, I had often sat in our house, taking a visual inventory of my surroundings until I had memorized every item, every inch. I came across a crack between two of the kitchen tiles on one such occasion. Was this a new flaw to consider? Or had it always been there? Sitting and staring for hours on end has a way of bringing them out of hiding.

The physical world does the same thing according to the second law of thermodynamics, the order of a closed system diminishing over time. I wondered if others had observed the slow decay of my house and home, as well as its solitary, inert occupant.

I decided to start cleaning. Broom and brush, mop and vacuum, sponge and rag, I employed them all, working on places seen and unseen. I cleaned for days, cleaned until the bleach and ammonia fumes in my clothes began to combine in dangerous ways.

It was not enough. The clutter disturbed me. It took all of my spare time for two weeks to purge the place of her things alone. Her clothes and books went to the Goodwill, the pharmaceuticals, cosmetics, and gardening magazines to the trash. It all went.

The entire Memorial Day weekend I caulked and painted.

One night demons invaded my sleep, mocking my efforts. They tormented me until chased away by the first light through the parted curtains and a familiar melody from another part of the house.

Anna was singing!

I threw over the covers and rushed to the next room, searching, calling ... then to the garden and the new patio. I wondered how I could have forgotten the garden, her sanctuary. Naturally, I had expected similar signs of neglect. Instead of the anticipated weeds, however, I saw the results of hours of careful pruning, sculpting, planting, mulching. The garden was the impression of perfection: every leaf, every petal as if Monet had painted them in place.

I remembered the numerous tulip bulbs she had buried along the hedges the prior fall, where they had remained hidden the last time I had been outside, months earlier. The shoots had since emerged and the curvaceous little red and white torsos now opened in response to the rising sun, or perhaps to greet me.

How strange, I thought. Without my glasses, they reminded me of splattered blood. Her blood.

For a moment I saw her. Anna stood nearby with her slender hands deep into a container of potting soil. She smiled, indicating how much she loved the cool sensation of fresh earth against her skin.

"No, it's not right," I said, wanting to grab her, hold her, but she had already vanished, her voice replaced by the tentative first notes of awakening song birds.

I retreated into the house, shivering.

That's when I made the decision. It took but a single phone call and Mary Lane, the agent who had sold us the house two years earlier, appeared on our doorstep. Ever prepared Mary Lane, she planted a sign in the yard that same afternoon.

After an obligatory "sorry to hear of your loss," she avoided mention of our little tragedy.

I served coffee while we went over the details. "You’ve done a terrific job getting the house ready to show," she said. I managed a weak smile and signed away the vestiges of my former life.

The house sold quickly and I moved, just as everyone suggested.

I enjoy my new residence. Little maintenance is required. Still, one Sunday before dawn last spring, I parked a few houses from the old place and crept into the back. I just stood there for a while, waiting for the garden to awake. I stood there in the moist, freshly-cut grass, hoping for another glimpse of my wife working her magic.

I cut the flowers, you see, but I left the bulbs in place.

My position soon exposed by the sun, I became anxious to avoid the eyes of early risers and retreated, disappointed. A loud clap startled me. It took a second before I could connect it to the impact of a morning newspaper, the fat Sunday edition tossed from a passing pick-up truck.

Secure back inside my car, I laughed at my myself for the silly mistake. No one had leapt to their death from a highrise, miles from the nearest one. No angel had fallen from the sky. No more cleaning required.

by J.R. Salling | Prose Home