Sometimes things line up in perfect harmony.
The little scrubby brush.
The water temperature.
The perfect suds.
Washing dishes becomes a pleasure. The suds flowing effortlessly. The water is hot and facilitates perfect cleaning - just at the point before it feels scalding. Rinsing produces a satisfying squeak of cleanliness.
The dishes line up like a jigsaw puzzle in the drying rack.
All is well in the world and the sink empties.
2 comments:
A prose poem about dish-washing.
You're full of surprises, aren't you?
A prose poem about dishwashing.
You're full of surprises, aren't you?
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