I never used to see dust anywhere except in my dad’s offices. His home study and university office both had piles of journals and papers and manuals and reference books surrounded by desk tops or shelf tops sprinkled evenly with dust. I used to take my fingers and wipe away the frosting around the piles when I spent time with him. He’d complain that because I disturbed the even distribution he would feel compelled to dust. He never did.
It never occurred to me that I didn’t notice dust in any other part of our house. For that matter it didn’t occur to me that I never noticed dust in the offices of other university professors. Of course, I didn’t visit many other professors in their office. Upon reflection I suppose my mother dusted the rest of our home and I was never aware.
Thirty five years after I moved out my parent’s home I looked up from my entry way and noticed a layer a dust on the door frame. Who dusts door frames, I thought as I reached up and wiped my finger along the soft fur. That simple motion took me instantly back to my youth, standing in my father’s study, silently watching him work. That simple motion brought tears to my eyes as I mourned never being able to leave finger trails along his dusty shelves ever again.
I think I will leave the dust on the door frames.