Scour
I’m a slow dishwasher; I always clean everything in a careful, pre-selected order depending on size, dirtiness, material, and personal preference. As long as I can remember, I’ve never deviated from this order. I think it was something set early in my mind by mother just before I took to doing chores. Something deeply seated and inconsequential such that I’ve never thought it was worth it to change. In a way, this order grants has its own freedom. As my body sets in to methods mechanical, my mind wanders with a freedom that seems accidental. Every wipe of a plate, every rinse of utensil, I scour away the dregs of the day and reset my own house in order. Feelings are churned and refined from jagged glass to smooth beads and events are accepted, if not understood. My lips often move in fragments of sentences from pieces of conversation, giving my voice to many. I find forgiveness, I find hope, I find reason, and when all is done I feel prepared for what is next. A small tension has relaxed; a small stress has been eased, for if nothing else is right, at least the dishes are clean.
No comments:
Post a Comment