Photo by James Wheeler on Unsplash
Dirty Dishes
I won’t remember dirty dishes and piles of laundry,
Or dust bunnies lurking in dark corners,
Or fingerprints on a window.
Or a stray sock on the bathroom floor.
I don’t care too much about a cheap broken glass,
That slipped through your small fingers
During your first attempts at independence.
What I will remember:
An over-the-shoulder I love you
As you ran to join your friends on the playground.
A late-night snuggle because you woke up after a nightmare.
An unsolicited kiss on my cheek.
An unexpected phone call.
You microwaving me a cup of coffee in the morning.
Reading aloud to each other before bed.
Short trips exploring new cities.
Uno games during dinner.
Late-night video game time,
You killing a whole squad just to go get my reboot card.
You introducing me to new things,
Because who says adults can’t learn anything from kids?
Your off-the-cuff statements: “We’re a lot alike, Mom.”
Even your “I don’t want you to die before me, Mom,”
And other deep road-trip conversations.
Those are the things I will remember.
Not all the times I struggled deciding what to make for dinner
(yay for frozen pizzas and grilled cheese sandwiches!),
Or the damp towels on the bathroom floor.
Even so, I strongly suspect that I will miss all of the above,
When you’re gone and on your own.
Copyright Eighth House Press, LLC
