washing dishes

in the dark kitchen / mouthing along

Hi everyone,

A lot of my writing recently has been heavy, but tonight I found some optimism.

The illness referenced in this poem is thankfully just a random cold/stomach virus that made its way through part of the family this week. But in trying to keep the rest of us healthy for an upcoming multi-generational event, some pandemic protocols were in place. The weight you hear in my voice is an accumulation of prior loss, and I am grateful there is not more loss at this time.

Wishing you uplift, healing, joy,
Rachel

— —

washing dishes
in the dark kitchen
mouthing along
to the Indigo Girls
and noticing
how the
shadows from the living
room lamp
crawl across the
counter, its black surface
glimmering more
than in the usual harsh
glare of LED overhead bulbs.
Am I thirty nine
or nineteen? Illness
has given me my own
quarters and it’s lonely
and quiet
and I miss
the soft sleeping
breath of my partner.
Isn’t that the pandemic
way, always something
to miss
whether out of caution
or a positive test
or a permanent loss?

I miss
having a voice
to sing
loud,
to connect.
I’m ready
to let go
of pain
as the default.

A water bottle, a glass,
tupperware and peeler shine
with the dew
of clean tap water.
Time to shake them
and lay them
to rest together
on the mat
for their overnight
evaporation tryst.
In the low light
they cannot
see the cracks
in my skin.

I slip into the office,
my temporary dormitory,
to find lanolin,
the protective cream
soothing more than
red knuckles,
a dab of love
from one finger
to another,
a soft touch
assuring
yes,
there is healing.

And as I snuggle
onto the thin
fold-out mattress
I glance
at the backs
of my hands.
Now I glisten too.

— —

Photo by Ethan Sykes on Unsplash