Washing Dishes

Washing Dishes
Edith sat on the kitchen stool as I washed dishes. My dad had already died. Edith and I weren’t crying, just talking. I was glad to have an activity; she seemed content to sit and watch me.
I loved immersing my hands in the hot soapy dish bath and returning with a glass. A good swoosh with the dish rag, then I’d swirl cold water in the glass until the suds were gone.
We kept talking about things, the past creeping into our conversation. I kept washing and rinsing. I was tired and I didn’t want false pretense.
I focused on the gentle bumping of the dishes, one against the other. The rest was just noise. I rinsed a salad plate, running my hand over the cool smooth surface. I set the plate on the dish rack and re-submerged my hands.
Edith glided over a memory, omitting what she had really said. I stopped washing. I removed my hands from the warmth and dried them with the worn, soft dish towel. I rolled down my wet sleeves and looked up at her.
“That’s not what you said,” I stated.
Her eyes widened. “What?” she asked.
I leaned towards her on the counter. “That’s not what you said,” I repeated. “You knew I wasn’t like Dale.”
“Oh, I never said,” she replied. Slowly, sadness crossed her face. She faltered, “I didn’t mean that, Tina, I’m sorry.”
“Ok,” I answered and began drying the dishes.
I smelled the mix of dish detergent and fabric softener from the towel. When I placed the last dish on the rack, I spread out the towel to dry. The kitchen smelled clean.
I grabbed my glass of unsweetened tea and took a sip. It needed more sugar.
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Story ID:	3959
Written by:	Tina S Mackin (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Midwest USA
Year:	2008