Tuesday Night

At night, after everyone goes to bed, I stand alone (as we all must) and face my final challenge for the day. After a long cleansing breath and muttered curses, I open the door and a cloud of steam envelopes me—my midnight facial. The cloud recedes and so it begins, each dish haphazardly placed on a rack, cleansed by science, and now reshelved for tomorrow’s chicken nuggets, pasta, or occasional uneaten vegetable. Each has a home unknown to anyone in my house but me. I am the keeper of the flatware.

My neighbor’s television lights my path. And I allow myself a moment to linger at the window and guess at their lives Are they on season 2 or 3? and I am grateful for the mental distraction from the mundanity of my evening existence. I never linger there long. I’m too tired to stand still.

Soon my thoughts turn to questions about their children and mine and I remember the meals that made the mess that led to this moment. I remember that we are when we could not have been and that I should be grateful.  God help me be grateful my muttered prayer in between swears as I finish my task. I know tomorrow will be the same. Not much will have changed. I will hate this every night until it is no longer mine to do and then I will mourn. Maybe it is a gift though. Someday this will be a good memory and what I do now is an investment of sorts. I will have earned that good grief.