This story is not about Mom and me. We were drip-dry dish washers. The scene was inspired by two of my cousins. They’re sisters.
We had loads of family gatherings here at the farm and on more than one occasion, I noticed them after meals at the sink, one washing, the other receiving clean dishes with a dishtowel to dry and put them away.
I noticed because that’s not how Mom and I did it, because it was an intimacy at the sink I had not experienced. One, because I don’t have a sister. Two, because, like I said, Mom and I were drip dryers.
Sometimes intimacy lives in the smallest rituals.
Did Mom and I miss out?
Maybe, but we had our own kind of intimate moments.
Writing isn’t always autobiographical, and also it is.
This piece is dedicated to two Wilson sisters I call cousins.
Drying Dishes
The door moves, just a hair, just enough to creak on its hinges.
Minne turns to look at it.
Nothing.
No one.
Doors move sometimes, right?
But just now? Just enough to notice? Just when she was thinking…?
What was she thinking?
Minne turns back to her task at hand.
Oh, yes, the dishes.
And how her mom used to hand her a dishtowel.
“Wipe them down and put them away. We’ll feel complete.”
That’s what Minne was thinking when the door creaked.
Her mom would hand her a dishtowel. A tether.
“Here, connect with me for a moment.”
The dishtowel, a lifeline.
Tell me what’s going on…
Talk to me.
An invitation.
An affection.
I care about you. I love you.
Minne stares at the emptiness beside her. The dishtowel hangs lifeless from the cabinet handle.
The door creaks again.
Minne turns.
With measured movements, she turns back to the sink, lifts the dishtowel to her chest, then begins drying the dishes she has stacked.
“I know, Mom. I miss you, too.”
[finished 1 January 2026]
What are the rituals that tether you to the people you love?
©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2026]
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