When I was a child,
My mother would ask me to clean the baseboards,
And I would protest.
"No one ever looks at the baseboards!"
When I was a child,
My father would ask me to wipe the walls,
And I would protest.
"The walls are vertical! They don't get dusty!"
When I was a child,
I didn't understand what they were trying to say,
And I would protest.
"You're the one having guests, not me!"
But what I had yet to realize
Was that it wasn't about the dust
Or the markings on the wall
Or even how we were perceived.
It wasn't until I had a home of my own
That I let stagnate and fester,
With dust and must and
The sense of dread behind a closed door
That I learned the lesson:
Sometimes, the evil spirit in the house
Is simply a dust bunny,
And the bad energy is you.
It was only after I scrubbed the walls,
Wiped the baseboards,
And vacuumed the ceiling seams
That I felt the weight was gone'
The weight you carry for so long
That you forget it's there
Lingers in your home.
I finally chased it off.
Once I learned that the best banishment
For that kind of curse
Is a bucket of warm water,
Some vinegar, and a vacuum.
