This evening, for no reason at all, I found myself thinking about my broom. A long-suffering and oft-overshadowed member of the cleaning corps in my apartment, the broom often finds itself relegated to brushing up big (but localized) spills; things that don’t quite warrant breaking out the vacuum, but still would be unpleasant to walk over. A bag of rice, split lengthwise down the seam, or perhaps a glass slipped from between soapy fingers in the midst of the washing up.
It’s hard not to admire the simplicity. Ideally possessed of a wooden handle; palm-sized and of a length to easily reach the floor without undue wear on the back of the user, tapering to a pleasant and manageable round on one end, with a shock of stiff bristles at the other.