the sink by Isabelle B.L
My grandma rolled up my pyjama sleeves. I climbed on the chair. She finger tested the water before it gushed down my arms. A brick of rose-scented soap cartwheeled in her hands. The drain slurped it all up and the pipes rumbled. I bent over like a prickly pear living on the edge of a cliff, its cactus and fruit airborne. She swiveled me from the waist, wrapped a soft towel, pat, pat, around the spotless arms. When she was in a playful mood, she let her stringy hair down from the coiled bun, combed it over her face and cackled. I slapped my face, peeped between two fingers, and only dropped my arms when my grandma returned.
We washed vegetables in that sink. Once we had to call the plumber because I had fun poking clods of dirt into the sink holes. Grandma slapped my backside but then served two extra scoops of ice-cream for afternoon tea. The slap worked because I have used a strainer ever since. A sponge sat on a scalloped dish. A washboard leaned against the silver wall. Grandma slammed cotton cloth over the wooden ridges until grime disappeared. I emptied my money box and Mr Smith, the chemist, gave me hand cream for my grandma’s chapped hands. Grandma said she didn’t need it, but when she discovered, from Mr. Smith, that her granddaughter bought the cream with lots of copper coins, then the tube stood upright on a shelf over the sink.
I rolled the floral sleeves of grandma’s dress. She gave up on creams and her fight against me—I would help her no matter what. The taps squeaked, I pressed the dispenser and washed her arms. I washed grubby garden vegetables and adjacent to the sink, the stove welcomed pots of soup we shared in winter. In summer, the sink briefly showered eggplant and capsicum before they danced in the frying pan.
The drain holes evoked forgetfulness, darkness, foreverness, but submersion and ablution crossed my mind too. Immersed in a purifying tradition. Love is pure. The kitchen sink is love. Photos, jewellery, knicks and knacks were shared among family. When the collectors arrived to clear the rest of the deceased estate, I let them in. “Go ahead,” I said. “Everything but the kitchen sink,” I added. When they had locked up the truck, I picked up my daughter and waved goodbye to grandma’s house.
Isabelle B.L is an author and teacher based in France. Her work has appeared in Best Microfiction 2022, Hidden Peak Press, The Disappointed Housewife, Free Flash Fiction and elsewhere.
