““Domestic Where's the wisdom in erasing a loved one's mess, so akin to his signature? Your honor, I only meant to strew the immaculate in his wake. To wipe the path ahead and behind reasonably clean. Futile, yes, but weren't such gestures essential to love's discipline once upon a time? Daily, I harvested dropped fruit peels and socks. I chased him through life with dustpan and broom, smoothed his body dents from the bed, soothed the mud tramped floors. Did I sin in this? Better to leave the habitat sweetly reeking of him than to spend years scrubbing up evidence of his existence. Archaelogists centuries hence may marvel at such relics: his mustard stained napkins, toothpicks chewed to splinters. Never let it be said that in my zeal to clean I robbed the future's museums. Who am I to call what flies to either side of the trail he blazes--half read magazines, cups of scummed over coffee and mashed out cigarettes-- dirt ?””
