Briefgriefs

Barely tolerable water flows freely from the faucet onto my rosy hands. Rivulets of pearly bubbles streak their way to my wrists as I scrub gravy from one of our ‘fancy' plates with a worn scotch-brite.

I hum quietly to “Carol of the Bells” playing in some movie on the tv behind me and daydream out the steamy window. I wonder to myself if it will snow soon. Or at all. Not a flake so far and Thanksgiving has come and gone. My attention drifts further into the future, but I am snapped back to my sink by the sound of Bing Crosby crooning about dreams of a white Christmas.

I’m caught off guard as the guttural sob escapes unbridled from my throat. The swing set outside my kitchen window blurs before me. I can hear him, singing just like ole Bing. Smell his aftershave. Feel the stubble of his chin rub against my cheek. My mother is dancing with my brother in the kitchen, and I’m on his lap by the tree. I hear the metallic scrape of a pan against the rack in the oven, the rusty screaming of its hinges as she closes its glowing mouth. So familiar. So forgotten.

“Are the cookies ready, Mama?” I ask, even though I know they are.

“Mama? MAMA!”

My son’s fingers pawing at my skirt drag me back to the dishes.

I blink, and the swing set steadies. The scent of pine sap is all that lingers.