I Wiped the Hob and Thought About How Much of My Life Is Erasing Evidence

Dear Delyara, The pan had spat oil, there were crumbs on the edge, something had boiled over slightly, and there I was wiping the surface back to a state that looked as if no one had needed feeding at all. That thought hit me more strongly than it should have. So much of domestic life is this: erasing evidence. Evidence of hunger, of mess, of family, of movement, of use, of one day passing through the house in real bodies with real needs. Women put things back, wipe things down, fold things away, clear the signs that living happened here, and the better they do it, the less visible their labour becomes. I moved the cloth in circles and felt oddly emotional. Because I think I know that pattern too well now. Do the work well enough and no one sees it. Do it badly or late, and suddenly everyone notices. That is its own kind of loneliness.