Shave

I shave my windows. They've been growing a beard, obscuring my vision of the hairy gardens. No one has told them that their panes are patchy, that their frames are overgrown. A bottle of Windex wouldn't work, so I took out my electric razor, which hummed contentedly in my hands, said, "Don't worry, be happy." When I could see the fuzz trees blooming, dropping their hairball fruit, that's when I knew I'd killed Abraham Lincoln glass forever. I could hide jump out to the lawn with my murder weapon in my hand, search for more heirs to cut, more presidential locks to chop off. My house promised it would never tell; its crew cut shingles and straight, neat lines told me all I needed to know about what a home is, how it stands for you even when you've tried to make some of it go away.