There are no baby pictures of Willow, and this is why: every year, around April, her mom would get a gleam in her eye and a duster in her hand, and she would take three days to turn the house upside down, scrubbing and polishing and throwing out anything that wasn't useful. One year that meant Willow's mathlete trophies. Another, it was her collection of toy horses. And somewhere along the way, it was every photo album they owned.

Honking her way through Los Angeles traffic, Willow teases herself with sideways glances at Faith and thinks maybe people should do that with their minds, too--every year, just toss out junked ideas, broken hypotheses, faded misconceptions.

Forget things like "enemies". Erase things like "jealousy".

It's all in the past, isn't it?

"You think B'll try to kill me straight off?" Faith asks. Knee jiggling. Fingers twitching for a smoke Willow won't let her have. "Because, B can really hold a grudge. I want to help, you know, but she--she's just, so--" Shrug. "Buffy."

Oh, shut the fuck up about Buffy, Willow doesn't scream.

Spring cleaning is for losers, anyway.

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November 27, 2004