I was thinking of your frenzy, which made me ponder my approach to housework.

Mother ruined me for the work of cleaning house.
I had more chores than my sisters, being the eldest.
Dust the living room. Vacuum the dining room.
Sweep the bedrooms. Scrub the bathroom sink,
tub and tile. And it wasn't like I could go through
the motions, half-ass it. She could tell from her perch
by the wall phone, by the disruption of air, by the decibels
of rubbing. I mean, by the very molecules of Endust®
if I was thorough, if I was doing a good job. And if I was sick,
if I had a cold or the flu or worse, a fiery inflammation
of the throat, which happened often, despite the removal
of my tonsils, it didn't pay to stay home from school,
because mother would say I'd had enough lolling
in my French Provincial bed and point out that the windows
could use a spray or two of Windex®. She couldn't abide
dirt or shoes left by the doormat, but it was more than that.
It was as if slovenly pillows or misplaced chairs said something
about her, about the order or disorder of her mind,
about the notice she took.

I had this trick with my hip when I vacuumed,
a bump and grind to the turntable. I also learned
to wipe away abrasive cleanser with a soft cloth.
The gleam was worthy of a reluctant smile.
Mother's hard scrutiny was a force field of will.
Yet dust was not the enemy. Grime was not malign.
Taking care of the home front was a fight she could wage.
Appearances were not everything, but they were defensive,
and she never wanted to hear another put-down from any
of my grandparents or guests about her housekeeping,
a word I've always thought sounded like a prison.