What Accumulates

The light hit the ceiling fan blade

at just the right angle,

and suddenly I could see it—

the dust accumulated there,

gray and thick,

weeks of it,

maybe months,

maybe more.

How long have I been living under this?

The blade caught the light,

cast a shadow across the wall

that moved when I turned on the fan,

a ghost of neglect

circling the room

with nowhere else to go.

I could clean it.

I could get the ladder,

reach up,

wipe the blade down,

and for a day or two

the room would feel brighter,

like I hadn't given up.

But the dust would come back.

It always does.

It's already settling again,

falling into place

like it's meant to be there,

like it's part of the house now,

part of me,

part of how I'm failing

in small, invisible ways.

I turned off the fan.

The shadow stopped moving.

The dust stayed.

It's still there.

Every time the light hits it,

I see what I haven't done,

what I'm not doing,

what I'll probably never do.

The dust keeps accumulating.

I keep letting it.