mopping.

  Cleaning has never been my strong suit. I cannot convince myself that cleaning is good or important. The result of working on a pan of cinnamon rolls is so much more visually pleasing and palatable to a body's mouth than a basket of folded clothing. Dishes, dusting, laundry. I would much rather be in the kitchen making a mess. But then I like to mop.

  It has become part of my Friday morning ritual. There is something satisfying about it. I clear the floor of all the moveable furniture, fill a bucket with hot water and  mop the floor. It slides around the floor and the dirt under get washed away. By the end of my mopping the floor is cleaned and the mop water is a gray-brown color for which the English language has no name.



  Or course, one of my brothers manages to trace muddy footprints on the floor within the first ten minutes of my putting the furniture back into it respective places. While do not appreciate my brothers' carelessness, I do not regret mopping. It is the chore I like.