The kitchen window

 He watched her as she stood at the window, washing the supper dishes. He gave up asking her if she wanted one of those fancy machines that wash dirty dishes, but she kept saying no, so he quit asking. He remembers asking what she looked at outside that window every evening as she cleaned the greasy plates, and then cleaned them again as he told her she was going to wash the color out of them. " Just our world," she would answer, tossing him a cloth to wipe the dishes. He stood next to her, looking out at the two apple trees they planted when the kids were born, which, over time, produced the best apples known to man. And darn good apple pies, he thought to himself. They looked at the lawn, now pristine, and remembered it as a playground with a swing set and a kiddie pool. Bicycles deserted in the woodshed when outgrown. A few years ago, she got them out of the shed, painted them with vibrant blues and pinks, then picked bunches of wildflowers and wove them between the spokes. " Yard art," she told him with a smile; "memories," he replied.

Looking out the window was a movie she would re-run when their family was young. Picnics and play dates, birthday parties and graduations. Their eldest boy coming home on leave for Christmas, bringing his mom to tears, wondering who that young man is in a sailor suit. They looked out and saw their daughter with her husband and newborn child opening the car door before it even stopped, running towards them with open arms.
They stood at the window together, bringing back the memories of their lives until she told him the dishes won't dry themselves. He kissed her cheek and said They've been dry a long time, my love.

Mike  2026