I had a dream last night that I was cleaning out the warehouse of a motorcycle club. It was a mess, everything on the floor and covered in dust and dog hair and I took it upon myself to clean it up. "They'll appreciate it," I thought. The motorcycle club eventually turned into my parents' old bedroom. In the dream, there were two washing machines in their room, something that was not there when I lived with them, not are they there now. I began furiously throwing away what was garbage, sliding dirty, or smell clothes off of chests and dressers onto the floor, eventually picking them up and putting them into the washing machines, and sweeping. "So much dog hair," I kept telling myself. I was so happy in the dream and eventually, my mom gave me a few things from her closet to wash. They were fine silk camisoles, or shirts still on the hangers from the dry cleaners, some with her monogram on the bottom "GM" for Genevieve Marie.
The silk tops reminded me of when I was a child and I would walk into her closet. It wasn't a walk-in closet but I was small and it seemed so large, her silk dress shirts brushing the top of my head; something to hide behind. Peek-a-boo. There were shoes lining the floor and cross-body purses hanging on the back of the door. I would be surrounded by her smell and the feel of her things and in absolute comfort in my little nook. I remember thinking, "mom never wears these silk camisoles or heeled shoes," because I always saw her in bed or after work. I didn't see her lounging around in lingerie, and there were very few (I can't remember any) occasions where she wore heels. She constantly worked and was always tired when she got home, which was usually past my bedtime. On the weekends she would stay in her cozy, checkered nightgown and bathrobe, or change into comfy clothes.
I remember my father's clothes as well. Dozens of khaki pants all over the floor. Button-down shirts to match. His uniform. I think every day of my life I saw my father in some variation of this outfit. In the summer, rugby shorts and a t-shirt. That was it. Unless he had some fancy dinner to wear a tuxedo for, he wore the same thing for the 32 years that I can remember.
I miss that room and roaming around and rummaging through their dresser drawers, looking for empty "snap boxes" to play with, or photographs hidden away, or shoulder pads I used to think were used for stuffing your bra. I'd find secrets hidden away in those drawers, but even the things that weren't secrets, I loved discovering them. My dad's socks with holes and a watch here or there, my mom's jewelry, some of which I have since stolen, and potpourri satchels. Finding the neverending drawer of nylon stockings.
I know I wasn't supposed to go through those things but, oh, how I loved discovering intimate pieces of my parents.
Eventually, there were no more fancy silk camisoles, and the dressers started to collect dust as my parents grew apart it seems like their magical bedroom also slowly disintegrated. More dust and dog hair. They'll probably be so happy if I cleaned it.
I developed a desire for cleaning at a young age, not only for the orderly personality I have but because it was something that was such an issue at home. With six people in a house, four of whom are children, and two adults working full-time it's not shocking that things started to get messy. We also had animals and they brought hair and more mess.
The mess was sometimes comforting, like a unique token of your home, but my parents were not proud of it so I thought, I'll clean it all right up. They'll come home and be so happy. They'll thank me and hug me and the bottomless drawers and the neverending closet will become magical again.
