The places we lean.

The places we clean.

Pain is a daily occurrence for many. I’m not alone in that. And I’m sorry to those who know exactly what I mean. My usual “4” is today about an “8.”

I cleaned a lot yesterday. I moved and pushed my body in determination and frustration.

I saw a spot.

My husband drinks a L O T of coffee. He is a blue-collar, hardworking (and not hard working) man. He leans—a lot. He likes his heated hoodie and wears it everywhere. Home, work, store… everywhere. It gets dirty.

And yesterday, I found all the spots.

You know what I mean… the place in the doorway where you lean and talk about the day. The wall you rest your hand on while waiting for the coffee to brew. The edge of the counter where you steady yourself while pulling on shoes in a hurry.

The places that collect us.

The quiet evidence of living.

And I washed them all.

Today, I grieve. The ache within. The physical ache. And a strange anticipatory grief that sits just beneath the surface.

My body remembers what I asked of it yesterday. It answers back in pulses and resistance. A quiet refusal.

The house is cleaner now. The marks are gone.

But I know exactly where they were.

I could walk it blind—hand to wall, hip to counter, shoulder to doorway. Memory lives in the body just as much as it lives in the home.

Why do we do this?

Scrub away the evidence of living like we’re not the ones who put it there.

Is it healthful? Or is it something else… a quiet attempt to keep pace with time? To soften its edges? To pretend, just for a moment, that things don’t change as quickly as they do?

Maybe it makes the present more real.

Or maybe it reminds us how quickly the present disappears.

The present always becomes the past.

And still—
we wipe it down.

We start again.