29-42

To the architect and construction worker,

My house has two toilets—one upstairs, one downstairs. The one upstairs refuses to accept the products of my bowel movement such that at the ripe, young age of 25, I am now endowed with a special set of plumbing skills I never knew I needed. The one downstairs has a collection of facial products, body soaps, and hand creams left behind by our house’s previous owners. We bought this piece of property from them over 20 years ago.

I haven’t started on the bathroom downstairs yet, but the one upstairs has already been bathed and scrubbed with Clorox and any other detergent I could get my hands on. I’ve found that there’s something spiritual about cleaning out one’s home. I threw out somewhere between 7 and 8 trash bags last week. Each toss freed me to fully believe the words written in 2 Corinthians 5:17: “The old has gone, the new has come.” The new isn’t exactly here yet, even though the weekly dumpster truck has come and gone, but I’d like to think the new is on its way especially as Dad and Jeff resume talks of renovation. And with somewhere between 7 and 8 less bags of trash, I’d also like to think there’s now more space to prepare for whatever that new thing will be.

My compulsion to clean this place is familiar. I was around 12 when I returned from a summer camp, rejuvenated and ready to take on Extreme Makeover: 29-42 Edition. I rearranged some textbooks, wiped some shelves, looked around and internally (possibly externally) collapsed under the sheer magnitude of it all. A decade later and the compulsion to clean has once again taken hold of my inmost being.

This time, I started feeling the itch after spending a couple of weeks at my boyfriend’s aunts’ homes. While 29-42 could never be as beautiful as theirs, I asked myself why it couldn’t be as clean. “Esther, be thankful for what you have,” Dad nags as I confess my thoughts. “Many people have less than you and are content.” And yet a heart of thanksgiving cleanseth not the dirt and grime on our bathroom walls. In fact, one can argue that my dad’s cleaning complacency is due in part to his oh-so-thankful mentality. Gratitude and comparison—double-edged swords.

I blame much of our house’s decrepit state on my mom whose standards of cleanliness would have served this house well. If she had stayed, maybe my brothers and I wouldn’t have had to live like this. She would keep my dad, the unruly fellow that he is, in check. Our plumbing would be top notch. I wouldn’t have to worry about ant infestations and skittering centipedes while lying down on our living room carpet. Dust bunnies wouldn’t be the common denominator of every room.

But I guess if she stayed, many other things would be different. And perhaps the people wouldn’t be the same. And at the end of the day, a house is made a home by the people. But the people (or at least the trio of siblings) are desperately waiting for the chance to rid this place of its bacteria, fungal growth, and poor air circulation, all of which comes with the danger of heat strokes, sleep loss, and rancid rooms. A deadly combination found only in 29-42.

Sincerely, Esther