Monday Flash Fiction: Dirty Dishes

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.

 

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