Dishwashing

Enjoying the peace and quiet of an early morning. The small town I live in is still quiet, and the birds are all that are heard through the window. My fur baby is asleep behind me on the floor. She rumbles and twitches, an occasional sleepy bark thrown in. I'm at the sink, playing with grapefruit scented bubbles. Washing dishes that I've handled for decades, each piece is as familiar under the water as is my own face. There's something comforting in the regular routine of washing by hand. I've seldom lived anywhere in my life where a dishwasher was part of my home. This charming hundred year old rental has no space to install one, and I love that, except for appliances, the kitchen is original. So, I stand on a bright red area rug, and wash each dish. I think of my life as it has changed over the years, the good, bad, joys, and sorrows. Through all of it, this has been a constant, comforting, ritual. I know that I have plenty of whatever I need in life, and I'm happy. The dish rack, full of clean, sparkling dishes is proof of that.