It’s the same story every week: “Ant, the house is all dusted. You can vacuum when you’re ready.”
“Aw, I got to vacuum the whole house,” I mutter under my breath.
When I’m ready, I grab the vacuum from the upstairs closet, plug it in and click it on. While the noise drowns out the rest of the world, I focus on specks of dust and lint challenging me to a duel they will lose.
Before I know it, my head is cleared of everyday life. My mind is fogged by memories of Mom and her Electrolux that slid on metal blades across our old rug in the four-room cold water flat.
There was that time when the neighborhood version of “Benny Miller-from-Cucamonga” tried to sell Mom a new vacuum. “Would you let your eight-year-old son pick up a handful of dirt outside and eat it?”
“Of course NOT!”
“But, Mrs. Buccino,” he said, “the rug inside your house is much worse than the dirt outside.”
Hey, I was eight. I wouldn’t eat dirt in the yard. Anymore. What was this guy talking about? ...
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