For the first time in an embarrassingly long while, I can see the bottom of my desk drawers. It's a cathartic moment.
She's a competent person who psyches herself out, her thoughts chasing suspicions and omens.
My knuckles are raw and bleeding, as if I've punched a wall, but the only things they've battled against are dust and cold, dry weather.
In a heartbeat, she feigns hysteria, her voice plaintive and her eyes moist. Cars zoom by on the highway.
He's in a bowler hat and a red bowtie, and he sits in the front row. From there, his tired jokes and loud asides are sure to disrupt the speaker.
Cleaning for Passover means a fresh start. Everything looks neater and more spacious. There's room to work and grow. I'm not going to be buried in the detritus of past years.
I'm amazed at how patient he is, fiddling quietly with the picture book as he waits for me to wrap up a conversation on the phone.