Alcove In The Upper Story

(Thursday, December 29, 2016)

I am in my maternal grandmother’s humble but pristine living room. Guests are entering and more are on their way. My father has instructed me to vacuum, and I have been doing this with a hose with a brush on the end. My mother’s mother and my father’s mother were both fanatical housekeepers, so my father sharply criticizes my device and technique. He hands me a new vacuum hose with a tiny, tiny suction end that looks like a miniature firehose. He tells me to run the suction head along every single seam and baseboard in the room. I think he is being crazy, but I comply as best I can. The family party begins, and I head upstairs.

The upper floor of the house is completely open, with beautiful wooden rafters that peak in a pyramid. A sleeping alcove has recently been built for me, along the edge of the main area. It has a low ceiling with a very long bed. Chris is upstairs, too, standing in the main room. We have a conversation that has drifted out of my memory.