Unclean

Unclean


         Molly hates cleaning but always did when she couldn't control her brain. All twenty-seven windows of her one-story ranch shimmered translucence as clear as Bahamas water frozen on a windless day. Frantic with thought she needs to control, Molly finds her mother's old china she received as a wedding present. Taking out the spotless china, she soaks the dishes in the sink full of lemon scent and tears remembering last year's Thanksgiving.

         It's all over now and never will happen again.

         A bird suddenly flies into the window leaving a broken-glass-treat with blood smears for Molly to clean.

         She reacts with haste to clean the horrible remains but without a hearts care of the suicidal incident. She shovels the dead remains into the woods and brings her focus back to her house. Molly tapes a large piece of clear plastic to cover the hole to keep the cool air from escaping until she bought a replacement glass.

         She finishes washing the clean china and polishes the silverware until her fingers tarnish black as if she read the newspaper over and over with sweaty hands. She doesn't feel tired but the sun fell anyway without notice. Molly sees the full moon through the clear plastic; it distorts her work into its mangled truth and wishes for peace.




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