Ode to a Mop

That fateful day last summer, when I first saw you..
It was hot, I was pregnant, and we were desperate to find a bathroom,
my screaming toddler, my 5-year-old, and I.

I thought surely the vaccuum and sewing machine shop would have mercy on me,
a poor, pathetic, waddling mama,
and let us use their non-public bathroom.

I was wrong,
but if that salesman had been more obliging, I would have
bought you on the spot.

For months, I dreamed of you and saved my pennies.
I thought of your sleek design, your efficient features,
your machine-washable pads.


After I met you, I could think of no other mop.
Our floors grew stickier and sticker, and yet,
I was ruined for all other mops forever. I could not bring
myself to use another.

Finally, as Christmas Day approached, my husband said,
"just get the mop." I was elated.

We drove across town, and I lovingly placed you in the back
of our van.

For two months, I was in domestic heaven. Cleaning my floors became
pure delight. Life would never be the same. Or so I thought.

Then, you disappointed me. You're not quite the accurate sprayer
you once were. I'm now faced with a decision: pack the kids and take
you in for a repair, or live with an injured cleaning device.

I should have known better than to fall for a mop like you. You were too
expensive, too good to be true.

I have learned from this. I have learned something about material detachment.
Never again will I be deceived into thinking one mop can change the state of
my home, improve my housekeeping skills, and bring me unmeasured joy.

I am better for the experience.