While I and the beasts welcome the return of sunshine to the Cosy Apartment, there is one grave disadvantage to the brightness of the approaching warm months.
The sun throws a spotlight on every speck of dust and every errant hair that flits, flies, falls or flops through the air. A grain of cat-litter or dropped food casts a shadow in the westering sunshine like a mighty tower and each missed particle of debris announces itself as though it were waving a banner from a mountaintop. The pointlessness of sweeping, vacuuming or cleaning becomes apparent as the brightness reveals that no application of broom, brush or cloth achieves more than the most temporary relief from a refuse-strewn floor, each tiny manifestation of uncleanliness mockingly descending once more to settle in the same location from which it was banished moments before.
Autumn and winter bring the illusion that my efforts accomplish results, an illusion that settles and stays for a season like a quilt of snow or a forest of fallen leaves, leaves that can be gathered up and disposed of in some manner or another. There is little sun in my home during those months, no yellow light to point its fingers at my half-won hygiene.
But I will continue to sweep and wipe and wash, a modern Sisyphus pushing a long-handled boulder, my steep slope a linoleum floor. But at the end of that day’s eternity, when the sun has set and the moon is more merciful, I will at last be able to relax with my cats - and watch them provide for my future labours with every scratch of their ears and shake of their heads.