The kitchen sink is white. I know not how old it is, its heritage, or how it came to have the a chip. A black chip on a white surface.
Yesterday the sink was scoured by hands that hold the beginning of my earliest memories. She walks around my house, familiar. Her handwriting with its big loops followed by ten stickers that my children eagerly anticipate.
She busied herself. Blooming in the present moment. Engaged in birth, I floated oblivious. Hand discovering God’s most recent thought come to earth. She grappled my smallest stainless steel pot. The one used for chai. With it she would lovingly scoop out an overflowing pool.
As the water lowered, the sequence of new memories began.
Note: This creative writing actually took a different turn than I anticipated. Dare I tell you the details? I think not. I hope you can figure out the setting and the action taking place over two drastically different time periods. I long to include more detail and to expand on this writing session, but I am opting to stick to the rules. Five minutes of unedited creativity.
What was I going to write? The Engineer and I lay chatting in bed last night at a terribly late hour that seems to lure good conversation out. Memories. I had been remarking how certain times, certain memories stand out to me in such vivid, poignant, and stark contrast from 10 years ago, while living in Colorado . . . compared to something that happened two weeks ago.
Linking up with The Gypsy Mama for 5 Minute Friday.