I mopped the floors of my father’s house

I don’t remember what was to come of that mop

I can’t remember how we got rid of it,

if we still have it.

I mopped the floors of the kitchen at Chili’s where

it felt like I never mopped enough,

the tiles were burgundy outlined in black cement where old food lived in the crevices

I was tired and my back ached from serving tables

I never cared when I was told that I hadn’t mopped enough; I wanted my room but

that mop was too heavy to scrub with.

I remember struggling to get my last belongings through the front door of my old dorm because of the mop

the long pole blocked it from being able to close

my old roommate sat watching me struggle to leave but

I was too prideful to ask for help,

I should have just come back for the mop instead.

When I got to the new room

my roommate said that she didn’t own a mop

that’s why the floors weren’t mopped

I love mopped, pristine white tile floors

but it was something sentimental about the messy floor that made it feel homely

the kind of homely that I hadn’t felt in the past room where I mopped all the time

those tiles just never felt white enough.

I don’t want to mop these floors though,

I would make it feel overly clean and not comfortable

Solmaz said that mops are too hard to move

I remember always buying a new mop

never really keeping the same one,

and, mops and floors were on my mind before Solmaz told me about her experience with

nomadic living,

I understand.


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