Washing dishes

 

Washing dishes and looking out the kitchen window at her world had never seemed like a chore. Her once-young hands kept smooth by wearing rubber gloves. She went through the motions, remembering her mother telling her to use plenty of hand lotion afterward, which she does to this day.

The dishes are few now as her husband passed a while back, and she seldom gets visitors anymore except when her daughter and kids come for a week when school gets out. She laughs, thinking about what one child asked her as he stood on a stepstool, her handing him a dish towel and telling him to dry after she rinsed. He wondered, grama, are you poor? Why do you ask? Well, you don't have a dishwasher like we do. We just put the dirty dishes in the machine, turn a switch, and leave the room.

She thought for a minute and then told him that if she had a dishwasher, she wouldn't be able to stand side by side with him and tell each other what their day had been like, how school was going, and anything else that came to mind, and the dishes would be washed in no time at all.

That grandson comes to visit, but not nearly enough now, as he's grown and busy with his life. They still stand side by side, talking about many things, remembering when he stood on a stool to look out the kitchen window as she handed him a dish towel. He didn't need the stool anymore; he just needed her standing beside him, looking out the kitchen window at their worlds.

Mike 2024