the dishpan

 I was on the swing reading Ray Bradburyˋs “Zen in the Art of Writing”; the humid air seemed to caress me as I digested the words and started travelling to places in the past. The book doesnˋt describe how he writes - grammar and syntax - but is more of a trip through his memories and how they triggered his stories. Iˋm not much of a fiction writer but one memory wedged itself into my consciousness, forcing me into the house to pick up my tablet so that my fingers could draw the story from my mind.

I wasnˋt remembering an adventure or tragedy but instead one of those sweet moments that are somehow fleeting but the emotion remains vivid.

I was 15 years old… you know how that is, old enough to think I knew everything, but too young to realize I didnˋt. Kirsten was an innocent 10 year old. A 5 year age difference when you are 15 is a lifetime. 

We were out with the family sailing in the 1000 Islands and docked for a few days at Endymion Island. There was a huge freestanding wood stove built of stone and cast iron and a few picnic tables off the end of the dock. The night was dark with a sky filled with stars. Kirsten and I stood around one of the tables washing the dinner dishes…. Anyway, we were talking and laughing, having the sort of time that burns itself into oneˋs memory. The pile of dishes was almost washed so I kept re-dipping each dish into water so sheˋd have to dry it again. You may think that itˋs kind of mean, instead it was the opposite. A part of me knew that some moments are short and that if the dishes ended the spell would be broken and weˋd be back to being a 15 year old and a 10 year old. 

I sometimes wonder if this was a gift from the future to show us that those moments around the dishpan would someday be the norm. 

Awesome!

“bread fresh from the oven”

“zoom calls”

“sitting on the swing on a hot summer day”

“music blaring by the pool”

“crunchy grilled cheese sandwich made from fresh bread”