Women before me look out past their sinks.
My mother with a lawn
of full trees and cardinals.
My grandmother in an alcove
of cheery wood cabinets.
I see blue Norman Creek as day slowly melts.
Familiar porcelain aches fill my sink.
Cookware, utensils, all
spent pots and pans.
Burnt-on leftovers,
Stuck crumbs hanging on,
Hands pruned in water; spine bent to task.
Watch plucky bubbles soon find rivulets
of air. Feel tension ease
as you look up and shift.
How doused we are with
indelible fortune. Tonight, I
chose scrubbing. To be clean for tomorrow.
[Written in April 2020]
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