I hate dusting.
When I was growing up, Saturday was cleaning day in our home. My older sister and I were assigned to either dust or vacuum-both chores to be completed while my parents went food shopping.
The shelves in the living room were lined with crystal vases and glassware. But my mother’s dresser was the worst. Her dresser was covered with glass perfume bottles and ceramic dishes-all of which had tiny crevices that seemed to attract dust particles.
In retrospect I don’t think it was the act of dusting that I despised but the time it took to complete the task. All the time I spent ridding my mom’s things of the tiny pieces of gray fuzz and then seconds later that same dust seemed to again be accumulating on these priceless treasurers my mother held dear.
Time. The only precious un-renewable resource we can never reclaim.
After my mother was released from this world into her heavenly rest, my sisters and I had the job of cleaning out her apartment. My heart felt as though it had been ripped from my chest as I examined the ornaments on her dresser. I picked up each piece of glass knowing that I would never see my mother again, I would never feel her touch or be able to laugh with her about silly things that happen in our lives. I almost violently tossed these useless pieces of glass into the trash as I desperately longed for the return of the time spent dusting and wished I had spent it with my mother instead.