Hand Washed Dishes
The bubbly, hot water rising, the gentle sound of our sink filling up and the scent of pine dish soap lingering in the air. She ate her chips and cheese and chatted with me, her feet dangling off the bar-stool. One by one, I swirled the hot, soapy water over each dish. I scrubbed and dunked. And we laughed and talked. I rinsed each dish and laid it carefully on a towel. My hands performing repetitive movements, the sound of the water, the dishes clanking, us talking… it made a beautiful song.
It had probably been months since I washed a sink full of dirty dishes by hand. Our dishwasher has become full more quickly because of all the baking and cooking I’ve been able to do during this time. There’s something primitive about it. My sisters and I washing and drying dishes in my childhood kitchen came to mind as I soaked and scrubbed. Nostalgia. Home. I drained the water and she finished her meal. The sun shone through the window making its way down the sky. She skipped down the hallway for her bath and as I dried my wet, soapy hands on a towel, I looked at those hand-washed dishes lying on my counter and was so grateful for home.
This time has brought me back to basics- cooking, baking, planting, home schooling, no activities to run here and from. More evenings spent on our porch watching the girls ride bikes. More mud, more dirt, more time spent outside. Tanned shoulders and cheeks. More walks. I’m thankful for these things. For time. For home. For my family. And for a sink full of dirty dishes that I was able to wash by hand.
