I came home every weekend. Her hands, always so dirty; somehow grime had found its way between the creases at the joints of her fingers, at their seams. Every time I saw her, she had the same clothes and the same shadowed eyes. I always looked past my father as he would me. I didn’t resent him for not caring for her; I resented him for having me. For staying when he was doing nothing. He felt the money was enough; I disagreed. I always felt so void of self in that house. My mother talked less and less each visit. In the final three years, she said nothing at all. I led her to the kitchen table, which was full of cut-out newspaper clippings, that I’m sure would find their way to her room. I cleaned off space and guided her to sit.
“I got a sign today,” she began as I pulled a large bowl free from the hardened drying towel situated beside the overfilling sink and filled it with warm water. “Oh, yeah?” I said. I had come to learn the rhythm of these conversations. Nurtured to confirm delusions. Never really talking, only mirroring, makes people feel heard. Made me friends who I knew much about, those who knew nothing about me.
“Look, it’s in the paper”, I peeked down at what she was pointing at in the mist of the clippings on the table as I sat the bowl beside her. I nodded. “What does it tell you?” I asked as I made my way to the bathroom to grab the bar of soap from the cream-gritted ceramic holder, and the hand towel untouched hung nicely as I had the previous Saturday. “That it’s almost my time”, She often spoke of her time, of which it was always almost was. “You got all that from the paper?” I asked as I pulled a chair up next to her, I laid out the clean cloth, and set the bowl between us. I grabbed her hands without issue and submerged them in the water. “I did,” she said as she turned to look out the sliding glass door. I prioritized her left hand first. Initially working at the grime with water alone. One finger at a time I would work down the knuckles, circling my finger against her loosening aging skin. Taking extra care and time with each. As I finished with the last knuckle of her pinking, I ran my nails gently at the seam of her nail and skin, freeing that which I could. I pull my hands free from the water, letting hers rest gently. Remembering how those hands used to clean my feet in the sink as a kid. In a much cleaner house with a much cleaner head. I grabbed the bar of soap and lathered it between mine before letting it sink to the bottom. Once again, grabbing her left hand in both and massaging it, its suds working at her dirtied hands. As it darkened, I submerged her hand in the surface below her, garbing the soap once more and working it in my hands for one final wash. Focusing again on a knuckle at a time, ridding the remaining grime free from each, in small circular motions. As I finished with the left, I pulled both of her hands out to lay on the towel. Before returning the bowl to the sink, I poured the dirtied liquid over the stacked mass of dishware, watching as it raced down the angled surfaces, and pooled in places it could not. Filling it once more and returning to her side. Her head still faced outside, but her eyes closed, so peacefully. I grabbed only her right this time, repeating the process meticulously. Gentle hands, the lull of the TV, my father’s snores, the dripping sink. Once I finished, I patted my mother’s hands dry. “Finished,” I said as I got up to drain the dirtied liquid. My mother, eyes now opened, stayed seated, looking out, the towel gripped tightly in her lap.
As the house quieted, I stood at the sink and cleaned the dishes, unwrapping the new sponge I grabbed from work. I scrubbed, lit only by the dim light above the sink. I worked away at the pile dish by dish, setting them to the side and staking the matching upside down on each other. As the sink cleared, I worked to keep my mind the same, focusing on only the task at hand, at the fact that I’d be driving home soon. With the final dish, I turned the sink off. Tossing the now-dirty sponge in the overflowing trash, which I collected, knotted, and sat by the front door, replacing the bag with a new one. I made my way to my mother’s room to find her asleep, the towel from earlier at her side. I grabbed it and the day clothes from the floor and threw them in the stacked washing machine behind the creaking, peeling bi-fold door, which I opened slowly. I closed the washer lid and began the cycle. Turning to look back at my mother’s door before, slowly closing the one in front of me, grabbing the trash at the door, and locking it behind me. Tossing the trash, entering my car and pulling a granola bar from my bag, which had stayed in the passenger seat since I put it there in the early morning. Peeling it free from the packaging, I took a bite, only now feeling my stomach, and pulled out of the drive-way. Lit by the few working streetlights I drove back to the city.