Picky

Lint. Dog hair. Lint. Fluff.
Picking with oval shaped nails, sharp and precise.
Pointed subtext and body language.
The grandmother wars, the judgement, picking at her subtext.
Lint. Dog hair. Lint. Fluff.

Always more to do, always another speck of fluff.
Grandmothers bending down with their sharp nails to peck at the spot.
Missing the one left to do, always more to do.
A female curse, to be judged, always more judgement and more dirt.

Even when their memory goes they still pick.
I watch their body language and subtext as they spot the dog hair along with making small talk.
Then I can’t rest because I have the picking in my body.

More, more, always more dirt. Try and relax, try not to let the feeling of the dog hair crowd the thoughts. All the hairs, grey white black.

The list never shortens. The eye for spots never let’s up. I just have to step away from it.

Rest. Come back.

Then I can notice the overall clean. That the hairs are small.

So small that they can bug me …

But, rest. Rest the thoughts in amongst the dog hair. This female curse of cleaning martyrdom, resentful, ferocious vacuuming has to ease up. Ease it up.

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