The wind howls and becomes an angry father bearing down. I pretend to ignore its pursuit and move through the house with deliberation. Here I pause to straighten a mirror and blow the dust from its frame. There I fold towels and stack them in an orderly fashion, greens and blues anchored by neutral tones to provide a layer of protection. Fumbling fingers, wrinkled from obsessive washing, trace the outer fold of the towel on top, white tinged with faintest blush. Purposefully I inhale the downy scent, yearning to recover the smell of clean. Oh, that this stack of perfection would never be tampered with, never disturbed, that it would remain an untouched tower of cleanliness. The heart’s drumbeat quickens as things come into focus and I see the blues and greens as they are, tattered and in complete disarray, barely covering the neutral hues of this dirtied flesh I am. A mess. A mess. A mess.