minalisms

is a wreck. The recycling bins are heaped well-intentionally. The gold sandals I wore last Friday are still splayed across the rug on the living room floor. A feather boa meant to excite the cats lies lifeless a foot away. Several pages of recipes and housekeeping tips (irony!) ripped from Real Simple magazine are in the days-old spots they fell upon when a strong breeze passed through. The laundry is piling up; the milk is expired; the kitchen sink is crying out; and the discount sofa, struggling to withstand daily use, is layered with the hair of four cats.

I’m a wreck.

I miss my mom. And my dad for that matter. I feel like I was better put together under their watch. They didn’t let me stray too far from cleanliness or responsibility or health in all the 24 years I lived with them. They’re not procrastinators; in fact, they follow a simple, reasonable regimen that prevents any overwhelming helplessness of “Where do I begin?”

They don’t deal with shoes out of place or leftover dirty dishes or loads of this and heaps of that. They get things done … on the spot.

And that’s really all there is to it.