Faucet Findings
My existence is stationary. I cannot turn, sit, stand, or walk. But thankfully, at least I can pivot about: perhaps 90 degrees max. It’s just enough to see things from a different angle and to better understand my position from another perspective. Although I’m sure one could argue otherwise, I like to think I have the best place in the house. I am at the sidelines of the action, at the heart of the household: where most interactions take place. Every day, I observe as pot and pans are washed and rewashed, as sponges are used and replaced, as streams of water splash up off the stainless steel, and as minerals are deposited along the edges of the granite. Spray, scrub, sweep, swipe, splatter. Each action marks the rhythms of the passage of time.
Between these actions I glimpse stories, fragments of life existing beyond the confines of my limited space. I hear conversations happening between members of the home as they recount stories, discuss challenges, laugh, mourn, argue and dance. I am there for important announcements, joyous gatherings and bittersweet goodbyes. The conversations change pace, they adjust in tone and timbre and as of late, they occur less frequently as the household members come and go at their own pace, in their own season. I enjoy the opportunity to observe each of them. I learn so much about them by simply listening and studying their actions without ever exchanging a word.
I can say with certainty that I’ve spent most my time with the maternal figure, whose quiet and gentle movements emanate dedication and care. I’ve noticed the tremor in her hand as she holds the heavy iron skillet, the sound of her footsteps first thing in the morning, and the sighs of exhaustion late at night. Sighs telling of burdens carried and dreams sacrificed many years ago. When the rest of the household is seated at the table, discussing and interrupting one another, she is there in front of me, silently cleaning dish after dish, year after year. The others, I also engage with, but it’s quite different. Their frenzied movements leave used spoons and collected cups in front of my view. Occasionally they commit to a project and stay for a while, their patterns and movements imprinting on my memory. But they come and go, while I remain, stationary.
Occasionally my imagination runs wild as I catch glimpses of stories from the world beyond. I hear of friends and family, strangers and enemies. I hear about the neighborhood, the city, the state, the nation, the world. Similar themes seem to recur at each of these scales: deaths, recognitions, arrests, attacks, instabilities, injustices, acts of forgiveness. At times I feel removed and small, my only connection to these realities occasional fragmented commentaries which are only enough for me to realize there is so much that I do not know. I am but a kitchen appliance, one of billions placed in different households that speak other languages and walk in different spheres. And my existence is but a brief moment in time, in which a lineage of past and future models have been displaced, destroyed, discarded.
But there I am: listening, serving, and helping. Spray, scrub, sweep, swipe, splatter.
What’s that saying? Everyone wants a revolution, but no one wants to do the dishes? You know, there may be some truth to that.