You pull the cleaning supplies from under the counter. Even those are covered in a layer of dust. You arm yourself with rags and tie back your hair. You pick an outfit you don’t mind sacrificing to a stray spot of bleach.

You pull things away from walls and sweep cobwebs out of corners. You dust shelves full of memories of the past year. You wipe windows, disinfect counters, and scrub spots off of tiles. You open all the doors and windows and let the light stream in. There’s a whole world out there, waking like it was born anew. Like it doesn’t do it every year.

That’s the nice thing about something as simple as deciding that the spring means to clean. To go through all the dark corners and wipe them free of what got stuck in there, in the dark, in the cold, in the lonely.

You sweep out the dust, and wipe off your hands. You throw a load of towels in the wash. Then, you deal with more than just what’s dirty.

You pick through all the stuff, each its own thread in the past’s dense weave, and look for loose ones that haunt you. The concert tickets from that friend who’s no longer your friend, the receipt you kept from that coffee date, when you swore they were going to be the love of your life. The birthday cards go in a box of memories; the ripped jeans folded up to mend; the unfinished puzzle put away for some other day; the sweater you swore you’d wear every day tucked in a box to donate.

You clean a mirror you forgot in your first frenzy, and in it catch a glimpse. The you that last year wasn’t you, stares back from your face. You smile, at how the sunlight streaks golden through your place.

Cleaning is a chore, sure, but it cleans more than just your home.