I washed the sheets we made love on,
the blankets we slept under,
every piece of clothing in the hamper that
might still have a scent of you.
I cleaned the towel that caressed your dripping body,
the kitchen hand towels too, just in case.
I tossed your toothbrush in the bathroom wastebasket,
knotted up the liner,
took it to the trash bin and
set it on the curb for the trash man to take away.
I cleaned the entire house of you —
vacuumed, mopped,
took a moist cloth across the
windowsills, table tops, and even around the legs
and baseboards,
removed every speck of dust.
Did you know something like 80% of dust is dead skin cells,
yours and mine —
even those are gone now.
I meditated,
saged the house until I could barely see through the smoke
that burned out the smell of you.
All this done in ritual
to reclaim the life I had
not so long ago
before you.
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 2001