House Cleaning Day was always the terror
Awaiting us every month
Mom wakes up at six sharp
With her league of clean pop music
And “back in the day” Sturgill Simpson

I wasn’t born a prodigy at luck-based games
And so when my curled fist lost to my brother’s spread-out hand
In a tense round of rock-paper-scissors
I was stuck scrubbing the toilet,
And peeling hair out of the shower
Cleaning out the grime inevitably collected
In a bathroom shared by two teenagers

But I refused
To touch my brother’s side of the sink

I didn’t want to see what horrors lay beneath the shaving cream he’s had since seventh grade
Or clear up his drain that has started making used-car noises similar to Dad’s twelve-year-old Honda
Or be caught dead rearranging his beat-up toothbrush, his 99-cent deodorant, his prehistoric retainer

I hoped, longed, and prayed for the day
He would pack up all that crap into a suitcase
And give me a perfect, boy-free bathroom
All to myself
The curious thing, however, is that when he gathered all his things and moved out of the house
I couldn’t find myself spreading my hair products and facial cleansers across the sink
Like I always said I would once he started college
I kept them crammed on my side,
Leaving the counter half-empty

Suddenly, I started to miss walking into the bathroom
And seeing a mixed-up array of acne treatments,
Or a men’s razor propped up against the faucet
I didn’t think I would miss something so annoying
And I never thought I’d be whining over half of a fake marble countertop

But here I am
Holding back tears every time I glance at his now-empty side of the sink
And wishing
He never left at all