Silence on the other end. Cold dread snakes in my tummy.
“Mom?”
“Baby, you know I support whatever you want to do. But maybe you should just try this and see how it turns out before. . . ”
“Before what?” Impatience tinges my words, which I instantly hate. Mom is a saint and doesn’t deserve it. I tap my fingers impatiently on my leg then give voice to the words I know she is thinking. “Before I make my entire personality about this and then crash and burn if it doesn’t go well.”
I have a tendency to get a bit obsessive. And then if it doesn’t go well, I get despondent and dramatic when I don’t achieve what it is I think I want.
“Goldie baby, I just want you to stay open to possibilities. When you get fixated on things, you tend to. . . ”
Lose my ever loving mind?
“. . . lose sight of what’s really important.”
“Is that my girl on the phone?” a familiar male voice says in the background.
A smile splits my face as there comes a shuffling sound before my dad is on the phone. “Hey baby, how ya doing?”
Talking to my parents gives me a glimpse of a healthy relationship—something I haven't found yet, but I'm not in a hurry. Right now, it's about me and my journey to independence.
“I’m good,” I chirp. “Just cleaning up.”
“Now you know how your mother feels, cleaning up after your aunt all these years.” His chuckle is cut short by what sounds like a smack on his chest.
“Hank,” my mom scolds.
“Whoops, I’m in trouble, gotta go,” he says before my mom comes back on the line. I hear the distinctive sound of a kiss between them. My shoulders slump as I sigh. Why can’t I find someone to measure up to my parents?
No wonder I can’t find a good guy. The bar is sky high, and Boston is crawling with sports-addicted, fuck boys who treat commitment like a disease they can’t afford to catch.
Though lately, anyone would think I was some kind of Boston-boy catnip.
Straightening, I remind myself that I don’t need any man. I’m beautiful, I’m capable, and I’m enough.
“Well, I’ve got to go pick up Noah from the bus stop, but let’s tandem talk and clean tomorrow too,” mom suggests. “You blessed thing, you helped me get through cleaning all the bathrooms, but I have a mountain of laundry I’m saving for our chat tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say with a smile. We give our love and hang up.
Something about being on the phone while cleaning makes it so much easier. I go from task to task without thinking about it. It's like blackout cleaning. When I hang up, I look back and see how much I’ve done, but I only remember spending time with my mom.
It especially helps when the summer heat is pressing down on me, trying to murder me one degree at a time. I’m positively sopping with sweat, and it’s hard to breathe.
Maybe I should ask Rap to take on more shifts so I can afford some A/C units? But then I’d have precious little time to invest into this beautiful monstrosity.
I take in the absolute wreck that ismyhouse. Spiderwebs have taken over the vaulted ceilings—I’ll need a ladder for those. After a bit of scrubbing, I discovered the tile floors are actually a light pink color when I thought they were brown. The only way I’m going to cut through the grime is by getting on my hands and knees with steel wool, peroxide, and baking soda.
This house is like my life: messy, a bit broken, but full of possibility. And both have suffered a lot of neglect.
Oh. And we are both hot as hell.
“We’re still standing, baby,” I say out loud to the house. Maybe if I talk to it, I can befriend it and it will work with me instead of against me.
Perhaps my powers will manifest, and I’ll find I possess some kind of awesome telekinesis that I can use to clean this place with the snap of my fingers.
Spotting the old vacuum in the corner, I found it in a closet and it sucks well enough. Narrowing my eyes, I focus, willing the machine to turn on and start moving around.
Nothing.
