The clanging of ceramic and steel, my toddler “helping” unload dirty dishes. Loading in the morning only to unload that night- the second load already beckons. The slimy, not-yet clean feeling of only-rinsed dishes as I quickly file them into place.
These are not my favorite things.
Hot steamy water, bubbly and inviting. A quiet kitchen- I’m left alone. A joining with every other woman who has washed dishes this way. A connection to my mother, my grandmother, my childhood. Rinsing in cool water, setting them to dry in a heap, dripping, layered on a towel. Every dish fits just so. A new soapy bath waits. There is no load one or load two, only a continuation of hand-washing.
This is slow. Soothing. Meditating.
This I can do. This I can teach my children.