The inside of my refrigerator is sparkling clean. Everything has been removed, culled, scrubbed, and reassembled. One could perform surgery by the glow when the doors are open.
I wish I could say I did this as a matter of course. That I regularly go over and through things and wipe away crumbs and traces of items no longer in existence. Truth is, the impetus for this icebox reboot was the discovery of a large, not quite completely shut, jar of cornichons tipped over on its side.
How often does it come to this? How often do we accumulate and stash away leftovers and new items with only the vaguest of ideas of what might be happening just outside of our sight? How often do we put something off until we have no choice: we can no longer deal with the results of former actions? Why is so much of my life an enormous metaphor?
Perhaps Tuesday, I can attack under the sink.
The Daily Cup 
And why is it so much easier to clean a refrigerator than to clean a life?
By the way, I do NOT recommend cleaning under the sink. Under the sink is Seriously Scary.
Anyone can open a fridge and peer inside and decide to clean it out, in part or wholly. ‘Life’ is much harder to see, from without or within, and ‘cleaning’ then has to be done without any clear sense ‘going over and through things’ and ‘wiping away’ is doing much.
Very penetrating piece.