Marching through the utility room into the kitchen, I decide the only approach is an arbitrary one; just start somewhere. Dishes first. I have to take loads of stuff out of the sink before I can wash anything. I take the rubber gloves from under the sink, turn on the water, and wash them all, dry them all, stack them neatly—so they nest properly. Don’t you dare create those silly balancing acts with my china. Grease and crumbs like acne on the stove and countertops. I scrub and wipe as many times as it takes. I pull off the knobs and scrape gunk out of the cracks with my fingernails. I put the gloves back on and do the floor, leaning hard on the scrub brush, pushing and pulling until there’s no trace of blood from last night. I vacuum the living room, put shit back in its place. I pull out the paring knife I sank in the wall one day when I’d been on the phone for three hours trying to find my folks and the last person I spoke to started laughing when I said their names. Real fucking knee-slapper, son of a bitch.

There’s dust in the corners, thick like felt. It’s under everything, between all the objects, hanging off the shoulders of ugly figurines. I look at the hard dolls on a shelf, a boy and a girl in the tan burlap of slaves, but with broad white smiles and a healthy, innocent chubbiness to their bodies. Why does anyone make these? Why do people bring these hard, dead things into their homes? Some people find delight, joy in them, or maybe these words are too much—they get a little kick out of them, a tickle, a smile. Do I have anything like that? What do I like?

Upstairs the guest room is covered in dirty clothes and sweaty knots of sheets and pillows. It’s all wrong. It’s so wrong I can hardly make myself go in. Four of Lolly’s watercolors in silver frames hang in a level-straight line like uptight clouds on a pleasant day. My computer’s on the unmade bed. The blue floral-printed comforter is on the floor, bulky as a boulder next to my dingy socks and once-black T-shirts and crusty underwear, crotch side up. A stack of plates, a mug, some loose change, used tissues, a recordable CD of I can’t remember what. My things stand out like an off-black rash against the cool tones of the walls and carpet and furniture. My things don’t belong here. And if I start cleaning, clear away the dirty dishes, put the soiled clothes in the washing machine and the clean clothes (ha!) away, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand the pleasant blue glare of the guest room.