Week 6 Theme

Parking the car at the end of the driveway I sighed and popped an allergy pill. The dust would reak havoc on my allergies if I didn't take the proper precautions. This had become a routine when visiting my parents house since I was allergic to dust and there was more than enough of it waiting for me inside. Stepping up onto the long wooden steps made of mismatched wood, haphazardly put together to help my Dad get in and out when he was on crutches, I turned the knob. For one stray moment I thought maybe a miracle had occured since the last time I was here and I woud walk into a house free of clutter, but as I passed through the entry way those dreams were turned to dust. Passing through a second door to the living room, I stood with trepidation. No place to sit, the only two spots on the couch taken up by my father and his dog, I waited there, looking around while I chatted up my Dad with talk of the upcoming hunting season.

How did it get like this? Once, for Mother's Day, my brother and I had spent an entire two days clearing everything out, painting walls, organizing, and putting necessary items back in, just so my Mom and Dad could have one nice room to sit in. A lot of good it did. You could no longer see the painted wall over the stacks of art supplies, books and other miscellaneous items that had taken up residence at the front of the room. Yarn and colored pencils spilled out of mesh bags, taking up precarious positions atop the stacks of books, magazines and more bags below them. DVD's, some still wrapped up tight in their cellophane wrappers, were scattered around the TV in no particular order, just chaos. I know they're called bookcases, but as I stared at the pregnant shleves overflowing with paperbacks, I doubted that anyone had tested them for that much weight.

There were little treasures scattered throughout the mountains of debris. Peacock feathers, from a trip to New Hampshire when I was a kid, still sat in a ceramic pitcher on top of one of the bookshelves. Any eye other than my own would not recognize their brillant shades of blues and greens through the thick layer of dust that covered every feathery tendril. My mothers metal suns and moons that she had collected over the years, some standing upright against the backdrop of books, some stacked one on top of the other because there was no room to display them all. Many of the treasures, if sold, I'm sure would pay for the renovations my Mom always complains she can't afford. A Star Wars metal lunch box from the early seventies, the carnival glass bowl from the World's Fair, the coins my Dad had collected durring his tour in the navy that were now hidden away in a plastic air tight box on a bottom shelf. All treasures wasting their beauty and marvel on the eyes of dust bunnies.

I rubbed my nose absently as the suns rays from the side window uncovered a shower of little sparkly bits floating through the air. I picked my way through the piles and moved a stack of blankets, carving out a small spot to sit down. Sitting on the very edge of the couch, afraid I would knock over something if I leaned back, I scanned the titles of the books to my left. Most were the same as they had been the last time I was here but occasionally they changed so I always checked. I'm not sure why because I knew I would never ask to borrow one. If I did Mom would insist on writing her name in the front of the book and putting it on "the list" so she would know where it was if she needed it. Needed it? She could start her own library! She'd never get through all these books and I'm not convinced she'd even know if one was missing.

"Crystal, did I show you the latest doll I'm working on?" my mother asked as she came in from the kitchen.

"No, I don't think so." She had gotten into this period of absract soft sculpture dolls in her crafting and to be honest they were very good, I found myself anxious to see her latest creation.

She walked over to the huge pile, moved two bags, opened a cardboard box, reached in and pulled out an old woman doll, her arms, with formless hands, wrapped around a budding fabric tree made of wire and cloth scraps. Forget what I said - she'd know if a book was missing. I don't know how, but she'd know.

I oooed and awed over the doll, complimenting her on the delicate features of the wrinkled face. She grinned with pride then replaced the doll and the bags. Standing with her hands on her lower back she leaned forward just a little, surveyed the living room briefly, then complained she had way too much to do - everything was such a mess.

"Well, where do you want to start?" I questioned, "That's what I came down for."

"I suppose you could help me go through my clothes. I have to get rid of some of them before we move." She grabbed a few trash bags from the box that magically seemed to appear behind the TV, and headed up the stairs.

As I stood I looked over and smiled at my Dad. "You know it's probably good your not selling this house - she'll need it for storage." I whispered. He just grinned and nodded his head. We both looked around, looked at each other, and then shook our heads. I could tell we were both thinking the same thing as I headed up over the stairs after my Mom. How did it get like this?