Wednesday, May 21, 2014

The Story in the Sink

There is a wealth of information in a sink of dirty dishes: A cutting board covered with remnants of oranges and strawberries and tomatoes, each not leaving a big enough mess to warrant a cleaning before reuse. Multiple small containers, coated with a thin layer of sand and ash, alongside remnants of items stored for a lunchtime picnic at the beach. Four (or was it six?) bowls streaked with dried oatmeal from three days' breakfasts unattended. 

If the highchair tray came with multiple covers, they'd be stacked by the sink too.

The weather forecast has been favorable this month, with only a half inch rain and a delicious abundance of sun, a welcome contrast to the fifteen inches we received in January.

This island we live on is green, with weather that is notoriously harsh. A friend visiting in March commented on what a distinct look seaside towns have: houses with exterior paint gradually peeling or chipped, foliage with hearty root systems to survive the ever present wind, so many trees and fences and walkways leaning. Weathered. All of it.

And so when the sun comes out and the wind eases up, so do the people--with as much time as real life allows. I spent two hours after my daughter went to bed cleaning: laundry and dishes and bathrooms. I unpacked from last weekend's track meet and began to repack for this weekend's final meet. It seems that the evening, after the sun has dipped below my backyard spruce trees with glistening rays through my kitchen window, is the only prudent time to get such work done. 

Eventually these tasks demand attention, when the baby runs out of clean pajamas, and there isn't a clean spoon in the house. Until that breaking point, I exercise my freedom to ignore. There will always be housework; alas, there will not always be sun...especially in this town. 

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