So I handwash a lot of dishes. As I’m fused to the sink soaping primary colored plates and bowls, I reflect on many things, including all things domestic, things I forget about until I’m washing dishes, after which I forget about them again until the next time I’m washing dishes, and many things writing related (pg. 211’s dire fin flip—yes? No? Too much?), and more often than not I’m reflecting on the maddening price I pay for having soul sisters, which is: They must live so far away from me that communication is possible only through Facebook, Skype (the timing of which no one can ever coordinate), and emails.
P lives in a Singapore skyrise. Her balcony comes with an astonishing view I’ve witnessed only on Facebook. Moisy lives in a country town with stone bridges, fat swans and a tea shoppe lifted from The Shire, a world away from my deserty Western valley. I have known P and Moisy for twenty-something years and am never able to comprehend how twenty-something years just happens. It’s nineteen eighty something and we’re graduate students in England, skipping Laban class to picnic by our favorite canal, drink French wine and deliberately not discuss anything having to do with searches of/for lost time. We’re running flat out (with screams) through Paddington Station to catch the last train home. Practicing fencing in my landlord’s overgrown garden, pausing between thrusts to stuff our faces with Hob Nobs and slurp French wine from teacups. Pushing up the sleeves of our black blazers and adjusting our Molly Ringwold skirts (well, mine, anyway), primping for a night out in London. Drinking French wine and watching Betty Blue, agreeing it’s the most amazing movie we’ve ever been brutally disturbed by. Or it’s nineteen ninety-one and—oops. A Green Eats plate has fallen to the floor. I hope it isn’t scratched. I believe it’s made of non-GMO corn, so how can there be toxins, but still. I hear my son practicing his Ninja moves in the living room. Ninja! he shouts, meaning himself. A bottle of French wine chills in the fridge…
Look: My son will be 5 in November (baffled exclamation). P has yet to meet him. Moisy’s children are in their teens, wot! There, now a Green Eats bowl has fallen and rolled straight to the dog’s paws. Was it a mistake to watch John Carter and The Time Machine in the space of a week? In 50 years I’ll be in my 90’s. Older than Molly Ringwold, younger than Madonna (somehow this is important). My preschooler will be grown, long PADI certified and running the Dolphin Rescue Center Emporium he will found fresh out of college. What will I reflect on as I handwash my space-age dishes in my retirement pod? Will my soul sisters finally be my neighbors? Will we still primp for a night out together? Will we prefer Jovian wine to French? Will we agree we are all wise enough to choose Swann’s Way for our book club selection? And: Will my novels finally be published?
Tonight, as I sit in the writing chair, I will channel my inner Burroughs/Wells and see what sort of docx is born. After handwashing the dinner dishes.
And counting my blessings, which include certain blonde Ninjas, vigilant moms who research the meaning of Safe and share their findings, sisters and sleep.