My husband’s business trip lasts all week. They usually do. He expects me to stay home, alone, except for groceries and errands. He expects the chores to be done, the house to be without dust, and the laundry to be washed and dried and folded away.

            I expect I’ll do it all too. I always do.

            I locate the feather duster exactly where I left it. I wonder if the duster is made from real feathers. A bird was slaughtered, bled, and plucked so we can dust our material goods and impress guests with a clean home. I pour a gin and tonic.

            Perhaps multiple birds died for this duster. I take a long sip.

            I work my way around the house and eventually to the fireplace mantel. It’s the easiest part to dust because it’s empty. I never noticed until this exact moment how much of an eye-sore it is. It looks barren, unused, forgotten.

            My mother had all sorts of items atop hers. She cherished the fireplace mantel. She said it was like a display of the family. The centerpiece of values, traditions, and memories. It was her favorite part of the whole house.

            I remember the mantel so well. An old clock sat at the center. Its tick was loud and distracting. You could almost feel time passing you by. Family photos, flowers, candles, and a small basket of pine cones were there too. Even the wooden butterfly I painted when I was six years old made the grade of the prestigious mantel. I painted it purple and pink and yellow and blue. My mother said it was beautiful, like me.

            But our mantel is empty.