My washing machine does not just buzz when it is finished.
It plays a song, with a coda.
Our dishwasher is almost silent in its swishing.
Our doorbell emanates from the pantry, an 8 note tune.
The pantry is many poems unto itself, so full is it of memory and intent.
Sweeping is my sometimes meditation.
My cookbooks are my old friends.
All the baseboards are very dusty.
My kitchen looks “cooked in.”
That’s ok, honey, accidents happen. Again. And the sheets pile up.
In fact, I can barely open my laundry room door.
I wear flock lined dish gloves and an apron for part of every day.
I pull my kids in the wagon around the cul de sac while drinking wine at 5:45.