The armory was opened in preparation for the battle: gloves lined up, static cling cloths prepped, polish and rags at the ready, vacuum cleaners on stand-by.
This was not spring-cleaning. This was war, a war that no human being can ever win, for dust is ever-triumphant.
In spite of this truth, the battle is waged regularly. The fortunate armies feature child dust soldiers who take on the bulk of the fight; intense supervision to ensure thoroughness is the trade-off. Others must enlist the four-legged comfort-givers living in their homes by strapping cloths to each of their paws and sending them off on their day. This is an act of desperation, but those leeches really should earn their keep.
Other generals must be hands-on and do all the work themselves: spraying, wiping, swishing, banging, blowing, shaking, reaching, falling, crawling, lifting, dropping, sweating. The hair, lint, and skin gradually, inexorably are corralled into bags of all shapes and sizes, and victory seems inevitable.
Then, when all appears to be vanquished, it’s spotted: a cobweb in the corner.
A hair on the wall.
Dirt on top of the door?!
Dust knows no boundaries: it lives on the walls; it lives on the ceiling; it defies gravity; it defies the laws of nature.
The sun sets on the battlefield as the infantry surrenders yet again, regrouping to fight another day.
The dust bunnies under the bed sleep on.