I had not done the dishes in a week.
Day after day, as my sister and I walked, talked and played from her house to mine, I looked at the growing pile and thought: not today.
I don’t think I have ever let a dish sit in a sink more than a day in my whole adult life.
When I got back alone to the village yesterday, it felt a little more foreign, my house a little more empty.
I questioned my choice to live so far away from hearts I love, from the very few people whose blood I share.
My mind was telling me painful stories as my body lead me gently to the sink.
I heated up a big pot of water. Added a strong squirt of bright green soap and swished it around with my hand until it magically turned into suds.
Then one by one I washed each cup, spoon, plate and knife.
The thoughts got quiet as the dishes got clean.
Birds overhead, late afternoon sun, baby bougainvilleas.
Hot water, then cool water.
Allowing the simplicity to smooth the pointy edges.
Wiping down the sink, then my hands.
More quiet in my head, less hurt in my heart.
More remembering, too.
Remembering how good it is for us to have our kitchen sinks be where we feel peaceful and alive.
And how lucky we are to share these places with those we love.