I meticulously scrub every last inch of the clean floor. Then I do it again because two is a lucky number. On to the windows.
The sills demand a toothbrush and dedication. The rugs insist on constant attention. I pick up errant ants in the cupboards.

I search for more dust or dog hair or whatever seems to clog the way, always using the preferred tool for each cleanup at hand.
Same treatment everywhere, every day. Counting and repeating ad nauseam. A compulsion, a genetic twist, a lifetime sentence.

That it was broken once,
Makes it precious to me now.
When the porcelain vase is shattered,
Embrace the pieces tenderly, and
Heal the cracks with gold.