Rita

Rita sweeps what can't be seen. Houses gather things that aren't dust: heavy spells, lingering quarrels, the gloom someone carried in on their back without meaning to. She comes in when no one's looking, in her faintly shimmering black cape, and works with method: the amethyst in her left hand marks the corners where the invisible has piled up — it turns cold all at once — and the broom does the rest. She always sweeps toward the door, never inward, and that's where the old custom comes from, though no one remembers why anymore. She doesn't smile much, it's true. Sweepers of energies have no time for charm: they have work. But if one day your house wakes up lighter for no reason, and you feel like opening the windows and putting on music, thank Rita, who passed through at dawn.