karinwatts
02-29-2008, 03:32 PM
My mother was doing that thing she did. That thing with the rag in the sink. She has this strange obsession with squishing dirty rags under her feet. She stands on them, and kneads her toes into the oozing, soapy washcloth. Every Wednesday night, when my father goes out for a drink, my mother gets very excited.
She turns up “The Sound Of Music” soundtrack and dances her way over to the kitchen sink. The rag squishing, I could understand. What I could not understand was why she wouldn’t take the rag out of the sink. “It’s just not the same,” she mumbled. She explained it as a feeling of satisfying wonderment, a feeling that freed her soul and made her heart fly. Climbing up onto the counter, mindlessly singing along to Julie Andrews’ voice, she points one toe and slowly inches it towards the nervous washcloth. Once she has gently poked it with just one toe, she pulls away quickly in a fit of giggles. Breathing fast, she tilts her head back, skimming the ceiling. Taking one last deep breath, she reaches her hands up to the ceiling to brace herself. Then she jumps into the sink and onto the rag. She begins vigorously dancing, singing, and giggling. The smell of apples from the dish soap dances up with my mother, and an orchard blooms around her. As she twists her head back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, in unison with the music, her hips follow along simultaneously. Her long silky black hair wraps around her neck and sticks to her glossy lips. Her beautiful, pearly white nightgown is bunched and held tightly, high above the sink, in her hand.
Out the kitchen window, the neighbors stare, not quite accustom to seeing grown women dancing in their kitchen sinks. My mother smiles and waves back at them as they quickly turn their heads and pretend they do not see her.
My father would only be gone an hour or two, and my mother would not stop dancing until he arrived. When he finally came home, she would jump down out of the sink, her face flushed a burning red, and pretend she had not been dancing at all. Sometimes she would slip, because her feet were still soapy and land on her behind. My father would gently pick her up off the floor, kiss her on the head and ask her if she was all right. She would laugh and make up excuses. She had just washed the floor; she spilt the milk, anything besides dancing. My father knew, I am almost sure, what she had truly been doing.
After my mother had gone upstairs to bed, he would walk over to the sink and pick up the soapy rag. Throwing it into the laundry basket, he replaced it with a new one. Smiling to himself, he would pour the soap onto the wet rag and as he squeezed it, he would bend down and take off his socks.
She turns up “The Sound Of Music” soundtrack and dances her way over to the kitchen sink. The rag squishing, I could understand. What I could not understand was why she wouldn’t take the rag out of the sink. “It’s just not the same,” she mumbled. She explained it as a feeling of satisfying wonderment, a feeling that freed her soul and made her heart fly. Climbing up onto the counter, mindlessly singing along to Julie Andrews’ voice, she points one toe and slowly inches it towards the nervous washcloth. Once she has gently poked it with just one toe, she pulls away quickly in a fit of giggles. Breathing fast, she tilts her head back, skimming the ceiling. Taking one last deep breath, she reaches her hands up to the ceiling to brace herself. Then she jumps into the sink and onto the rag. She begins vigorously dancing, singing, and giggling. The smell of apples from the dish soap dances up with my mother, and an orchard blooms around her. As she twists her head back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, in unison with the music, her hips follow along simultaneously. Her long silky black hair wraps around her neck and sticks to her glossy lips. Her beautiful, pearly white nightgown is bunched and held tightly, high above the sink, in her hand.
Out the kitchen window, the neighbors stare, not quite accustom to seeing grown women dancing in their kitchen sinks. My mother smiles and waves back at them as they quickly turn their heads and pretend they do not see her.
My father would only be gone an hour or two, and my mother would not stop dancing until he arrived. When he finally came home, she would jump down out of the sink, her face flushed a burning red, and pretend she had not been dancing at all. Sometimes she would slip, because her feet were still soapy and land on her behind. My father would gently pick her up off the floor, kiss her on the head and ask her if she was all right. She would laugh and make up excuses. She had just washed the floor; she spilt the milk, anything besides dancing. My father knew, I am almost sure, what she had truly been doing.
After my mother had gone upstairs to bed, he would walk over to the sink and pick up the soapy rag. Throwing it into the laundry basket, he replaced it with a new one. Smiling to himself, he would pour the soap onto the wet rag and as he squeezed it, he would bend down and take off his socks.