I knew it would eventually get to me. Everything I heard and read about before embarking on a renovation project told me that one of the biggest challenges is dealing with the dust.

It crept up on us slowly. There was no great dust storm. A couple minor incidents when the boys brought the downstairs ceilings down, and when the electrician put the light to the loft in. A couple great clouds waft through our slightly open doors and up through the cracks in the floorboards.

I see it in footprints, on floorboards and on my yoga mat.

We put up our dust sheet, to hang down over the staircase, to catch any billowing dust storms as they whirled up our stairs.

But the sheets and the closed doors and the mats down on the floors can’t stop the relentless creep of the dust.

The holes in the floorboards, the slithers of open door, the passage of human traffic up the stairs and through the rooms. It’s almost impossible.

A thin layer of brick and plaster, the dead skin cells of our old house, lies as a veil over our furniture, books, keyboards, clothes, duvet, fridge, television, everything.

It tickles our throats and volumizes our hair.

It’s part of the furniture.

It’s here to stay, for now at least.




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