House Cleaning

House cleaning is a funny thing. There are two entirely different species of it, and they are not even remotely related.

The first is the ordinary kind. Dusting. Vacuuming. Straightening pillows that nobody asked to be straightened in the first place. Wiping fingerprints off the refrigerator, only to discover new ones approximately twelve seconds later. This kind of cleaning is simple. Tedious, yes. But simple.

Then there is the other kind.

The archaeological dig.

The decluttering.

The opening of drawers and boxes that have not been disturbed since at least two presidents ago.

That is where things get dangerous.

Over the years, Terry and I collected what can only be described as a very respectable amount of life. Not clutter, exactly. That word feels unfair. These were artifacts. Evidence. Tiny witnesses to decades well lived.

At first, I was fairly disciplined about keeping things organized. Then life had other ideas.

As Terry’s MS progressed, priorities shifted quietly, like furniture being rearranged in the dark. The things that once seemed urgent, spotless countertops, alphabetized files, matching lids for plastic containers, slowly surrendered their importance.

There were doctor appointments, medications, mobility challenges, adjustments upon adjustments.

Life became less about tidiness and more about tenderness.

And honestly, the dust could wait.

Now, with Terry gone and me a little older, I decided perhaps it was time to tackle the house properly. A noble idea in theory.

In practice, it is like emotionally stepping on Legos.

Every drawer I open contains a small ambush.

A receipt from a trip.

A handwritten note.

A random screw that apparently belonged to something very important.

And today, I found a picture of a school assignment written by ten-year-old Terry. It must have been kept by his Mom or Sister.

The paper itself is precious enough, with that determined little-kid handwriting marching across the page as if punctuation were entirely optional. But what stopped me was the story.

Terry was writing about the plane crash at the Pacoima Junior High where Ritchie Valens was studying.

He had told me this story many times over the years. Apparently, he was at nursery school when all chaos broke loose after hearing about the accident nearby. To a child, the event must have felt enormous, like the sky itself had misbehaved.

Children absorb things differently. Adults explain history. Children feel its weather.

In a sad and strange turn of events, the rising musician Ritchie Valens was later killed in a plane crash on his music tour.

Reading his words, I could almost hear him again, telling the story in that familiar voice, somewhere between serious historian and mischievous little boy.

And of course, no memory of Ritchie Valens arrives alone.

Soon enough, in my mind, Terry was singing La Bamba with great commitment.

That was his style.

The house remained unclean, naturally.

Very little actual progress was made today, unless you count sitting on the floor, covered in dust, smiling at old photographs and papers as productivity.

I think it should count.

Sometimes house cleaning is not about removing things.

Sometimes it is about finding them.

Finding the breadcrumbs of a life shared.

The proof that love was here.

Still here, really.

Just tucked inside old folders, waiting patiently between the dust bunnies and expired coupons.