Angels Outside of Church

I fill the bucket with water, adding a measure of wood floor cleaner. The citronella scent permeates the bathroom before I can haul the heavy bucket toward the bedroom, the last quarters to conquer. I can do this.

I set the bucket down and wipe my brow with a rubber-gloved forearm, looking ahead to relaxing with the terrier on the couch. I kneel and move carefully in the grid method to compensate for my low vision while I clean the floor. Soon, I need to change the water, altered from translucent to unappealing gray. I try not to slosh liquid as I walk. I don’t walk, I trudge.

With a fresh bucket of suds, I eye up the only place left to clean: under the bed. I consider my plan of attack and get into position on my side, stretching my arm out to paint the floor with cleanser in the grid pattern. I pass the cloth in lines, working my way around the perimeter. It’s easy.

The middle ground presents a challenge. I shove my arm to its maximum extension to reach it. Not quite enough. I wiggle and press my body farther under the bed frame, wincing as my shoulder hits something. I roll to my belly and flatten my chest to reach the grime. Ugh.

I rinse my cloth and repeat the stretch, determined to finish the job. I’m making wood floor angels in the summertime. I smile, but I keep mopping. Rinse and reach, cover it all. I’m done. I push myself back and notice my damped shirt and shorts. That’s fashionable. I wipe my forehead and carry my bucket down the hall. I’m breathing hard, feeling a little dehydrated. Maybe next time, I’ll move the bed first.


4 Comments Add yours

  1. Casee says:

    As I was reading along I was thinking “Wouldn’t it be easier to move the bed?” Glad I read to the end! I love the way you tell a story.

  2. Fun description of a terrible chore!

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