Ode to the Swiffer
Hello again, my old friend Swiffer.
I have watched you standing there lingering against the wall
Like a lady in waiting or a jilted lover waiting to be reclaimed, longing to be loved.
You patiently anticipate the day when thou shalt be realized
As the premiere Passover appliance.
For, alas, the past year has proven that the bristle and pan surely wins our affections.
Through the changing seasons, as the apple cake crumbs, the oily remnants of latkes, and the sticky hamantash morsels litter our floors, we effortlessly sweep them away with the broom, as you stoically watch and wait.
Your charger lies in the darkened cabinet with its cord tightly coiled about like a sleeping snake.
Arise! Arise! Oh Swiffer, your day has come to claim your redemption, to humble and shame us with your capable servitude.
Truly, you are the only appliance worthy of gobbling up our crumbs of affliction.
The dusty soles of our feet are forever tainted with matzah residue, an irritating reminder of the sand in the desert as we walked our way to freedom.
And we cry out to you Swiffer with our suffering.
You are the only one who can take us out of our misery with your outstretched aluminum arm and battery charged motor.
Ah, the floor is clean again. We maniacally and selfishly use you Swiffer until your energy is depleted. We are distraught as we wait until you are charged once more.
And when the holiday ceases to be, and the crumbs are nothing but the taste of a memory, we will remember it was you, oh sleek metal one, who delivered us from crumbliness to cleanliness.
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