A Plea to My Husband from our Garage (with apologies to those who read this last year, but the garage suffers untouched)

O Master of the house,

I am blighted and ashamed. Lift your hand to me, and I will be restored. Once, I stood, open and ready before you. Now my contents spill over like vomit from a drunk. Your neighbors to the south snicker as they pass; your own children hold their noses against my stench. In shame, they lift their scooters and roll out through the house. In shame, they enter only through the front door. In shame, my mouth remains shut.

But you, my master, have the power to lift this ruin from me. Remember when I was new, when you saw that I was good and housed your car and not trash in my belly. Do this for me this weekend, master, that I may lift my door and show my glory to your neighbors. He is good, they will say. We were mistaken. Your children will access my innermost parts and the feet of your bride will alight upon my floor once more.

And for you, I will house you in comfort and organization forevermore.