My vacuum cleaner tells a tale. This little studio apartment doesn’t get cleaned often. Only when the whim strikes me or the impending threat of visitors motivates me does the evidence of existence get cleared away. But when that catalyst comes my vacuum tells a tale.

The voice of my vacuum speaks of my foot traffic. A steady hum that raises into a knocking of whiling dirt where many a sole has tread. The threshold is raucous, of course, but there are other patches that accuse me. Underneath the computer desk sends mixed messages speaking of both work and play, creation and folly. Others, however, do not speak so kindly. The place in front of the television asks me the purpose of spending hours watching the adventures of Hiro and Ando and seeing Frodo go up that mountain one more time. The dirt before the fridge asks me why I feel the need to examine its contents repeatedly when I know there is nothing of substance to be found save a half empty jug of milk and the long neglected veggies bought with the best of intentions.

Yes, my vacuum cleaner mocks the habits of this solitary bachelor yet reminds me of the life lived elsewhere. That loudest of noise raised at the threshold reminds me of where all those rocks and dirt came from. It tells of miles walked outside these confines and the steady accumulation of time to be carried back through the door at days end. The wilderness leaves its mark on the sanctuary and both speak clearly of the passing of time.