Washing and Drying Up

Each night after the evening meal there was never a discussion as to who would wash the dishes and who would do the drying up. My mother was the washer, my sister and I did the drying up. Hot steam would rise from the sink before plates were plunged deep in foam and scrubbed with a brush - we would wait, tea towel in hand to pounce on the first plates to come out, rinsed and white - dishes were easier to dry than heavy pots and fiddly knives and forks. It was a time for talk, for laughs and sometimes snuffled back tears - everyday life lived within the space of our touching elbows. I can still feel the tea towel in my hand wet and warm with those blessed memories. Seventy years on, I bend down and load the racks of a dishwasher with soiled tableware from the evening meal. Its quiet whirr will fill the winter silence and play a soulless ditty when the washing and drying up is done.