Last night my family left. And I washed dishes.
It had been weeks, months, since I'd handwashed a dish, save an errant pot. It had been hours, days, since I'd had any time to myself. So I shooed them to the pool and eyed the sinkful of cups and plates and odd things, the ones that hadn't fit in the dishwasher's last load.
Silence--finally--fell over the house.
At the sink, I lost myself in the blue of the Dawn, the slip of the bubbles. I focused on the pull of my hamstrings as they stretched to lock my knees, felt the cold metal hardware as I leaned my forehead into the cabinet. My fingers swam the warm water, not quite as hot as I like it to be.
I'd forgotten how peaceful and relaxing washing dishes could be. I was reminded how important--no, dire--quiet is for this thinker, writer, woman.
I hummed a song. I plotted dinner. I
heard my thoughts.
I summoned the main character from my WIP, whom I hadn't seen in at least a week. She stood next to me at the sink; we chatted just a bit. But before I could beg her to stay the evening, my family returned and she made a graceful exit.
The dishes were done.
The peace, gone until next time.
