In the rush of preparing to leave for a few days, to visit family for the holidays, I look around. The house is a mess. I hate leaving it like this. I hate, hate, hate it. I’m not the world’s best housekeeper anyway, but with all the holiday prep, and packing, and on and on, the dust bunnies have become overpopulated.
As Todd loads the car, I fret about. Wiping off the counter. Attempting to get a spot of the kitchen floor. Wiping the bathroom sink. The tub is too far gone to tackle. Ick.
“C’MON,” he yells. Kids already in the car.
On the road, he says, “I don’t know why you care so much. The only way anyone is going to see the house is if we die while we’re away, and who cares? We’ll be dead!” He smiles.
I stare straight ahead. Still a little unsettled. The student staying with the cats will see it and he knows it. Apparently, she doesn’t count.
After a time, I ask,
“What if we’re just incapacitated?”
Hands on the wheel, he doesn’t miss a beat, “Well, if we’re incapacitated, they should be filled with compassion for us and not judge. Walk a day in our shoes.”
Then he adds, “And if they really want to help, they can clean up a little.”
*Dying order. A term I learned while living in Virginia, meaning the house should look how you would want it to if you died, and people would be going through it to settle your affairs.