Today we ripped the old dishwasher
from the kitchen where it has made its home
for the last thirty years.
Dust coated pipes and hoses
were exposed in all their nakedness
and seemed to be embarrassed by the intrusion
into their dark, private hole in the wall.
And underneath the old dishwasher,
three different floor coverings,
each with its own story to tell of years gone by.
At the very bottom of the trio lies a beige stone pattern
which looks very much like real stone
but is a linoleum from 40 years ago.
I look down at the linoleum and remember
at the age of 12 when I used to clean the house
for my mother who worked all day.
I’d mop this floor each week and then
wax the beige stones until they shone and sparkled.
And when the job was done, I’d put the chairs and table
back in their places and I’d begin the family dinner.
No one really noticed the waxed, shiny floor.
At the end of the week, I’d receive my 25 cent allowance
and go to the Friday night movie on the corner.
Then the next week, I’d begin all over again.
At twelve, the housework, dinner, and dishes were all my job.
And now, with the old dishwasher gone,
all that is left are memories of the mopping, waxing,
and a girlchild with lots of dreams.