Sweeping Up

A short passage on the sadness of moving house

My daughter spent a long time this morning washing some pots and pans, so I took the opportunity to sweep up the kitchen. We have a ceramic floor and I sweep it three times a day after every meal. I go through the same motions every time: picking up the broom that lives in the corner, starting from the fire and sweeping across by the rug, pulling back the chairs and cleaning under the table - there is usually a lot of food there - then over to the sink, tracing the line of every tile up to the corners and under the fridge, pushing little bits of fluff, rice, breadcrumbs and dust into an ever increasing pile. There is an awkward bit underneath the door where food has a habit of accumulating. I always think as I pass this space, "I must get down on my hands and knees and clean under there properly," my next thought being, "I'll do it tomorrow".

I push the dirt into the same corner every day. Sometimes I leave the sweepings on the floor; tucked right up in the corner hidden under the broom. We call this a 'peachy' - named after a boy we used to work with who never used a dustpan and brush. But most of the time I do manage to get it into the bin; I imagine what my husband would think if he saw the sweepings left on the floor for more than a couple of hours. That is incentive enough.

Sweeping helps me to clear the air in the room; helps me to start afresh. Sometimes this has to happen in order for me to feel safe again after the hectic rush to get the children dressed, fed and off to school. But, I won't have to do that for much longer, I won't have to do it for two reasons: 1) the children will not be going to school after this year, we will be homeschooling our children and 2) my husband just gave our landlord three months rental notice. Meaning that we will be moving away from this house to another small chalet further down the valley very soon.

So, sweeping up has been rather poignant for me this morning, even though I do it three times a day. I couldn't help wondering, as I traced those terracotta tiles around the fridge, what it will feel like to sweep up the kitchen for the very last time. The house that I have loved and tended for the last two years. What will it feel like to have that final glance out of the window onto the waterfall and watch the sheep in the next field coming down for a drink. I will miss waiting for the willow tree to blossom and miss the lizards coming out of hibernation to sun themselves on the rockery outside the back door, nor will I be able to see the baby toads I released into the garden this spring grow into huge old croakers under the shrubbery.

When we leave, a part of us will remain here - I have no doubt. We love it so much, but times change and necessity is calling to us. We know it makes sense for the time being to be nearer to civilization.

I can picture the silent, empty rooms now. Perhaps though, if someone is sensitive enough to pick it up, there may be a flash of movement somewhere in the corner of the bedroom; children jumping on an imaginary bed - up and down, up and down. There will always be a certain kind of heat coming from the fire, only perceptible if you stand for long enough to catch it; the heat of love, as small bodies cuddle up, wrapped in towels fresh from the bath. There will always be the faint drumming of a keyboard somewhere over where the computer used to sit, perhaps someone may hear it one day as they stand looking out on the garden beyond. And sounds will most certainly come from another corner downstairs - the creaking of an armchair rocking a newborn baby to sleep night after night.

But the first 'unusual' sound that the new tenants may hear will be the soft swish-swish of a broom as it moves across the floor, lovingly tracing the line of every tile, moving around that awkward hinge under the door. They may think that it is only the sound of the waterfall gushing passed the window, unaccustomed, as I know they will be, to hearing its mighty roar just a few feet away.

The one thing I hope for after we leave, is that the new family never see the shadow where a pile of sweepings used to lie, uncollected in the corner by the sink. If they do catch sight of its mark, they may scrub and scrub to remove it, but I know it will take a long time to fade.

 

Reviews

[Darksideofman]

I am speechless, I really have goosebumps. I never dared to say I would ever be touched by a story about sweeping but you have proven me wrong. You connection with the reader through imagery was grasping, I could not stop reading. I only found a few Grammer errors but to be honest I couldn't really point them out without having to comb though it. I know this tale to be true and I feel for your loss at moving, Every writer wants to connect with the reader, I hope that the new place holds as many good times and happy memories in store for you. Please, keep up the good writing and I will be back to read more. Thank you for sharing.

[Piper Sullivan]

This is marked as the first piece on Writer's Cafe that has made me cry. :) Congratulations, the Weeping Piper award is very prestigious indeed! Hehe, with that said, this is absolutely beautiful. Your imagery is stunning and engaging and I felt as though the house was real to even me, down to the terracotta tiles. I am assuming this is autobiographical, but I can really sympathize with these feelings. Based on the other reviews, I'm guessing you connected with them as well. There is such nostalgia in your words and I love it for that. Seeing that I'm 18 and should be moving out of my parents' house soon, this has made me reflect upon all of the memories I've had under its roof and the emotional attachment I have for it (I've lived here for the past 12+ years, after all).

Moving is quite the loss, as we form attachments to things that are familiar; it's human nature, I think. They always say that 'home is where the heart is,' and I find this to be true. I too hope your new home will provide that for you in time.

Beautiful write! I must add this to my library and I will most definitely be checking out your other work here! Thank you for the opportunity for me to read this!

Piper

[Samuel Dickens]

I love this story, Lune. You think a lot like I do, wondering if some essence persists when we leave. I like the idea of taking something so simple and mundane as sweeping the floor and making it interesting, also. Moving can be a traumatic experience, not to mention a laborious one. When I visit my old home town, I often drive by the old house I lived in when I was small, and I still feel some attachment to it. You have touched on something that a lot of us must feel, and done so with skill and grace. Thank you. Sam