Knives After Seven
her habits live on in me
Last night I washed knives after seven, and it’s in those moments that I know it’s impossible to forget my mom.
A bit of backstory.
Years ago I implemented a No Washing Knives After 7 policy. One two many times, I had heard an “ouch” from the kitchen as my mom stared at the bright red pool of blood collecting on her hand. In essence she was too tired to wash such sharp objects. A policy was born.
My favorite time to attend to dishes is either late at night or in the morning as I boil water for coffee. The result is me staring at the clock with its hands at midnight and thinking about how this goes against the predetermined policy. It has never applied to me, but that doesn’t seem to matter. I always feel like I’m living dangerously, soapy sponge in one hand and knife in the other.
This isn’t an isolated activity or moment. These flashes come often. I apologized aloud the other day for redoing my ponytail in the kitchen. No hair touching was allowed in that vicinity. Ever.
As I adjust the kitchen towels to fold them neatly and hang them so that they fall just so on the cabinets, she crosses my mind again. Sorted. She would approve.
Taking clothes from the dryer and laying them one by one in a neat pile on top elicits a little part of her too.
The way I take everything off a surface to clean it or wipe the kitchen island down every morning all reminds me of her. She’s the one who instilled these behaviors and the way in which I execute them. Her hand is ever present in the mundane daily activities.
There are far bigger ways that she will be remembered as well, but there’s an intimacy to these. They’re the ones that even her close friends don’t know. A quiet bond between mother and daughter silently hums with each repeated task. Hi, Mom. Still miss you.
Libby, this is beautiful! She loves you so much!