I want our kitchen to be an open space, and our sink to have a view. I want to look out over the counter tops to see you on the floor with our children, educating them with play. You’ll build towers, drive cars, cuddle our girls’ dolls, sail boats in the air. You’ll wrap the kids in blankets beneath the canopy of couch cushion and sheet forts. And I, assembling the meals that will nourish the bodies we’ve built up to be strong in confidence and adventure, will look over you and the items we’ve collected to create our sacred space.
I want our sink to have a view. I want our sink to have a view so that cleansing the dishes evolves into a ritual also cleansing me. I will dip my hands into the sudsy water, some of the thin, tiny bubbles maybe floating over and enticing a toddler to “help,” and the dishes for me, too, will become play. I’ll have watched the natural theater of light and dancing shadows change, reminding me that all the day’s unfortunate events have passed and that life is, every moment, new.