I can’t do things for a long time without getting distracted or bored. And so when i’m washing dishes my feet are planted to the floor for what feels like centuries after centuries.
Each plate seems to have been dragged across hell and back, and my weak arms and the brittle sponge can only do so much. Therefore there I stand for hours scrub, scrub, and scrub.
In front of my sink there’s a window that opens up to the front of my house. As I drown out the sounds of the running water and the feeling of the silky soap all around my hands, I look outside and picture all the things I rather be doing than withering my hands away under the sink until my fingers prune up.
The sun peaks through the rustling of the leaves on the neighboring trees, and blinds my brown eyes. And so I look back down and the once dirty plate is now shining white again. It is so clean that I can see my reflection in it, there lay my tired eyes as they do every day.
After what feels like hours the enormous stack of plates that seem to topple over the horizon is finally down to 3 spoons. And then it happens.
I hear the light foot steps that can only match my younger sister. As I turn to meet her smaller figure, I see the worst thing imaginable.
Her small dainty hands, holding another stack of plates.
It takes all my strength and willpower not to drown her in the sink. (All of it)
And there I stand for another century scrubbing away my entire youth. Scrub, scrub, and scrub.
Word count: 282
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