Part 8 of the 26-part series called "Napowrimo 2019"

I am still sometimes awed when things don’t put themselves away.
Take last year’s taxes, for example. I had them out to refer to
for this year’s, then got a phone call which I took
in the kitchen. I forgot about them. They did not jog themselves
into their envelope and from there the filing cabinet, as I hoped
they would. In a similar way, the dishes resolutely wait
until I get home to wash them, and the floors simply refuse to sweep
themselves. I suppose they are somewhat in love with me.
They all wait until I can touch them, lovingly work them into something
resembling order, and I suppose after I brush my hands off
on my pants, off to another housely paramour, they sigh with pleasure
and regret that they don’t have possession of more of my attentions.
Sometimes I think they put themselves in disarray just so that
I will come back and clean them up again. Sometimes I think that maybe
they’re trying to control me somehow, to change me like in a bad
relationship. Sometimes I think this is a bad relationship, that
I should just go ahead and get rid of all my stuff and live in a hole
in the ground with a dirt floor so I don’t even have to sweep.
I’ll have one plate and one mug and one spoon and I’ll eat nothing
but stew. My pot will never be empty and I’ll continually add stew
to it and it’ll get better and better over time, like a wine
or a good marriage. It’ll be a good marriage, too, a real melting
pot. All I’ll have to do is chop wood for the fire, and everyone knows
that firewood is anti-relationship. We’ll be alone, together,
firewood and I. Don’t need nobody else, we’ll say. The night sky
will be our blanket, the moon our lamp. The sun won’t even be
necessary. And in that way we’ll be until the end of everything.