The Dustocaust

The sun beamed through the curtains of Mrs. Winter's house, illuminating a fine mist of dust in the path between the glass and the floor. Mrs. Winter was not the best of house keepers, saving her efforts for one great cleaning rampage at the end of November so she could settle into her easy chair in front of the bay window and watch the snowfall without sneezing and itching. Of course, Mrs. Winter did not know what those floating specks of dust knew, that the cost of Mrs. Winter's comfort was a microscopic holocaust, a great purge of the dust, dust mites, lint, lint balls, and little grains of dirt that settled on into the threads of the carpet, on top of the TV, in front of and behind the knicknacks and curious on the shelves. Milo knew, though, of the coming Holocaust as he basked in the sparkling radiance of his fellow dust particles in the light of the window.

The coming November would not be Milo's first Dustocaust. He had survived the winter before on the brass molding of the kitchen chandelier, watching in terrified anguish as first the vacuum, that the Swiffer, than the feather duster cut hell bent swaths of destruction through the thin layers of communities that had settled over everything in piece and harmony. William the breadcrumb was mercilously flung into a trash can along with Paul the frayed string and Sandy the bit of rolled up paper. The trash bag, itself coated with thriving little dust particles, was then ripped from the can and stuffed down the incinerator chute where millions of little beings cried out in horror and pain before the flames devoured their tiny bodies. Milo felt powerless as he watched the systematic destruction, as each floor tile, every wood panel, and every lacquered surface was stripped clean.

So Milo drifted in fear as much he he did in leisure, surrounded by so many ignorant dust particles around him. He wanted to pursuade the whole community, the whole world, that something must be done about the approaching disaster, but since dust does not have a developed language, he found himself frustrated in his inability.

As Milo wafted, the front door opened, and the draft sent the whole dust cloud into a swirling frenzy. Mr. Winter's had come home from the turnip field. Mr. Winters was seen by many of the dusts, particularly Milo the dust as a sort of emissary, a promise of compromise. Every time Mr. Winter's trudged in from tilling the turnip field, he shook off thousand of dirt particles, little sparkling bits of sand, and in general left a trail of thriving filth across the room, straight to his easy chair which faced the TV, perpendicular to Mrs. Winter's reclined.

Mrs. Winter's entered from the bedroom hallway.

"Bob," she said, "how many times have I told you to throw your filthy clothes straight into the wash?"

Cruel, cold Mrs. Winters.

But Bob said, "Honey, I'm tired. I've been tilling the turnip field all day and I just want to settle into my easy chair and watch the TV."

If dust could applause, Milo and the others would have done so, as they watched the argument, which unfolded as countless others had, with great interest.

"It doesn't take much to get out of your clothes and wash the dirt off," Mrs. Winters said. "And besides, why on earth do you keep tilling the turnip field? It's nearly November."

Milo felt sad in his dust heart, knowing that Mr. Winters meant well, but that, as always, he wouldn't have a response.

"That turnip soil's got to be tilled, that's all," Mr. Winters mumbled, pulling himself out of his chair. The motion shook more dirt and dust onto the chair upholstery, at least saving some of the newcomers from a violent and soapy demise. "Fix me a glass of turnip juice while I get changed."

Mrs. Winters shook her head and ambled to the kitchen while Mr. Winters shook his head and ambled to the laundry room.

If Milo had a head, he would have shaken it too. Some of the dust mites had heads, and they did shake theirs. Milo sometimes envied the dust mites because they were able to run if they had to while he himself could only drift on the house currents and land where he might. Milo know how lucky he had been to drift onto the brass chandelier and often cursed the strong wind that knocked him loose the day the tree fell and the branch punched through the window.

When Mr. Winter's came back in, dust free and in clean linens, Milo drifted around in the air lifted on the shoulders of unseen, gentle currents caused by moving bodies. Milo also envied the little lint balls that clung to Mr. Winter's clothes because when they tangled in the threads of the carpet, the held on better than the dust did. Of course, Milo had no way of knowing that most lint balls got swept away in the wash or trapped in the lint filter of the drier. From there, the lint balls met the familiar, horrible fate in the incinerator. If Milo had known more about houses, he also might have wondered why this house had an incinerator instead of a trash service, but unfortunately some questions are beyond even the most astute piece of dust.

It was about the lint balls on Mr. Winter's shirt that Milo dwelt his thoughts on the rest of the evening, so much so that he didn't notice that Mr. Winter's breathing stopped shortly after he sat down. Mrs. Winter's didn't notice either. Mad at her husband, she simply snapped a goodnight towards him as she strode off to bed, never even having brought him his glass of turnip juice. If she had, she might have saved him, because turnips have great powers to help our health, so Mr. Winters always said. Mr. Winters had believed that if he drank his turnip juice every day, he would live forever. True or not, Mrs. Winters would be plagued with guilt for her husband's death on account of lack of turnip juice.

Milo of course didn't understand any of that. Milo just assumed that Mr. Winters had fallen asleep on the couch. Even when Mr. Winters hadn't moved by morning, Milo simply thought Mr. Winters was chosing to be really still, like Milo had atop the brass chandelier. Maybe people needed breezes too, Milo thought, envying the dust mites even more. As such, Milo didn't understand why Mrs. Winters cried so hard in the morning, holding her husband's feet, clutching his legs, pounding her fists on the carpet. Milo was concerned with the dust clouds that poofed from the carpet with each impact, the new clouds that were tracked in as the men came and took Mr. Winters away. Milo did wonder why so many more people than usual were going out to the turnip field since Mr. Winter had managed it so long by himself, but Milo didn't ask beyond that.

Milo wasn't even concerned at first when Mrs. Winter stopped coming into the living room, barely noticed that she stopped coming into the house at all. Milo was too busy frollicking with the other dust in the light streaming through the window.

Until the Great Stillness came. Without Mr. and Mrs. Winters, there was nothing to move the air in the house. The heating system was off, so Milo slowly drifted lower and lower in the air, until one day he settled on the carpet next to a dust mite named Jackie.

"What happened to the wind?" Milo thought about asking Jackie, inable to ask since dust doesn't talk.

"The wind is gone," Milo assumed that Jackie would have said. "The Winters are gone, so the wind is gone."

"But I want to drift in the window," Milo would have said in response.

"You can't drift in the window without the Winters," Milo knew was Jackie's answer too that. Dust mites were so smart because of their superior anatomical development.

Jackie crawled nimbly away and disappeared under the television set, putting an end to the imagined conversation.

More and more dust began to settled around Milo, but a profound sadness filled him. A sadness so profound that Milo didn't even notice when November came and went without a dustocaust. Instead, Milo noticed that the dust mites began to die, deprived of their diet of human skin flakes. None of the dust flew gaily in the air anymore. Everything was turning gray.

On the morning that the city cut the power to the house, Milo suddenly understood that our simple joys are the results of our great tragedies.