When Gutter Cleaning Becomes Performance Art

When Gutter Cleaning Becomes Performance Art So picture this: it’s gutter-cleaning day at my parents’ house, and somehow I end up on the ladder. Classic. I’m up there, mud flying, trying to wrestle with last year’s gunk while my dad stands down below—supervised hydration technician—holding the water hose.

Except… he’s not exactly in “helping” mode. No, today he’s in “full confidence in his daughter” mode. Every time my brother offers to step in, Dad waves him off like a royal guard:

“No, no, your sister’s got this!”

I’m like, “Dad, any help would be great, please and thank you! He can start on the other side of the house…”

Eventually, my brother does take over—wearing his nice, crisp white shirt like he’s headed to a lowrider show, not a gutter battle. Two minutes in, the gutter clogs. I try to loosen it, then tell my brother to check it—and as soon as he looks, a blob of gutter goo goes airborne and splat—his shirt transforms into a green, brown, yellow, orange tie-dyed Chicano hippie masterpiece.

Of course, I’m laughing so hard I get a faceful too. Now we both look like we lost a mud wrestling match with Mother Nature.

Meanwhile, my mom comes out like the neighborhood HOA:

“Avoid the windows! I just cleaned the windows!” 🫣😬 Too late. We’re muddy, messy, and cracking up—

Me: 💀 Face-paint-by-gutter-mud, in full Día de los Muertos drama.

My brother’s t-shirt wasn’t an ordinary one—this was a Tie-Dye: Barrio Battlewear™.

Forged in the trenches of city gutters, blessed by Mom’s side-eye, and splattered by the sacred hose of paternal faith.

It didn’t survive the day, but it earned a place in Chicano fashion history.

And Dad? Still standing there, chill as ever, smiling proudly like:

“I told you my daughter’s got this.”

Looking back, it wasn’t really about the gutters—or the mud, the shirt, or the windows. It was about my dad, standing there steady and sure, saying without saying:

“I believe in you.”

He didn’t see gender. He didn’t see age. He didn’t even see the ladder. What he saw was his daughter—and in his eyes, I’ve always been capable. Strong. Unstoppable. Whether I was five or forty-five, whether he remembered the details of the day or not, the core belief never changed:

You’ve got this. I’m here. I’m cheering you on.

That kind of faith lives deeper than memory. Dementia may steal names and stories, but what remains is this quiet, unconscious knowing—a love that speaks through nods, through smiles, through standing at the bottom of a ladder and saying,

“She’s got it.”

And if I’m not listening—if I’m not present enough to hear it—I might miss it. These aren’t always loud moments. They’re subtle. Sacred. But they’re there.

So yes, we cleaned the gutters. We made a mess. We laughed until we cried. But what I’ll carry with me is something more:

The unshakable truth that even in the fog, my dad’s love still shines through.

And I heard it.

I felt it.

I sure do appreciate it.

Love you, Mom, Dad, and Brother. ❤️