How Long It Had Been There

I was doing the window. Looked up.

The whole upper corner gray with dust—

thick, built out,

months of it.

I'd been in this room every day.

The sink. The mirror. The tile.

I just never looked that high.

I touched it with the cloth.

The whole thing came down at once—

just a smear, gray on white,

barely there.

I stood on the step stool

looking at the clean corner.

Something had been at work up there

the whole time I was below it,

cleaning what I could see.

I climbed down.

Folded the cloth over.

Looked at the smear.

The gray streak on cotton.

Months of it, gone in one wipe.

I put the cloth in the hamper.

The corner still bare above me.

I don't know what it means

that I missed it that long.

Just that I did.