It takes my mind off things, she said. That stream of
searing hot water running down my hands off the dishes that I hold, purging
them of their dirt.
Scrub scrub scrub…I have scrubbed my life away at this
kitchen sink come to think of it. Every day so many hours so many months, I
have spent just standing here scrubbing at these worn out dishes….with ragged
sponges, and blackened steel wool. My nails have grown thin and scratched, and
they often chip off.
But I must scrub and clean.
When it rains in the sink, she said, I find it hard to
believe that I of all people am alone, standing on a dry continent, with wet
hands.
She wipes her forehead beaded with sweat with the back of
her hand.
Her sins are piled up high in the kitchen sink, stained with
rawness, plastered with burnt ashes….she must scrub the night away.
