The past is all around me. I’ve collected it, swept it up, folded it, pressed it, washed it off, pinned it back, sewn it up, tucked it in, dusted it off, and framed it. But it never keeps quiet. It never sits still. It’s never satisfied. And I keep searching.

Cleaning is my compass. Scrubbing my way through the details of misunderstanding, it was the pristine precaution that preserved the fabric of my family. With each thread tangled, cleaning was our control. It was an heirloom, a borrowed illusion. With closed lips, I learned its language.

I missed a spot.

Fluency in a silent language leaves much unsaid. Now I clean for curiosity, retracing my trail of crumbs. I scour for substance, for secrets, for solace. In a spotless room, every detail is a clue. I search for the truth that heals.

I thought I lived in a little box when I lived in a glass house.