I made my way down stairs for my morning ritual cup of joe. As I entered the kitchen I was greeted by disheveled dishes piled high on the countertop–remnants of last night’s dinner. Clean, no less, they sparkled in the dawn’s first sun. Sipping hot creamy coffee, I slowly removed a plastic cup that balanced atop the chaotic display; it’s heavier counterparts, a metal spoon rest and stainless steel pot. slid abruptly, loudly crashing into the sink. I was quite sure the blatant racket had disturbed the tranquility that still rested upstairs as my famly slept in their cozy beds. Carefully and methodically I continued removing each dish and utensil, like figuring out a puzzle, until every last piece was returned to its proper place ready for use again.
In the moment, I recalled a fleeting notion, surely a wise warning, though quickly dismissed last night:
This is not gonna hold.
“Na,” I said to the quiet prediction. “I built it well, supported safe.”
Until the time arrived this morning, to disassemble my domestic piece of art.
A new thought passed through my mind…
Who does this? Who stacks dishes piled high, with no organization, but with perfect strategy, building weightier ceramic cake plate atop a flimsy, plastic throw-away container, while forks protrude every which way like an abstract bouquet of assorted crockery?…
Of course, I had to own up.
I do this.