Sunday Cleaning

The silver kettle shines the reflection of the kitchen window along its side. The black handle proudly stands straight up, at least for 10 minutes until someone decides they want to have some tea. The kettle sits on the back element of the left-hand side, with the spout facing inwards, like it’s supposed to. And just to be sure it doesn’t dry out from the heat of the oven, there’s a slight layer of water along the bottom on the inside.

Every Sunday mom cleans the kitchen spotlessly with baking soda and vinegar using the old rags from t-shirts we wore when we were kids—the ones we used to spill kool-aid on because we’d be rushing to go play outside.  Even though we’ve left home and it’s only mom and dad there now, mom still cleans the kitchen – from the top of the ceiling fan down to the space behind the floorboards and the walls -- every single Sunday.  Her routines, she used to say, is what would keep her sane, and children, she said, need routines in order to feel safe and grow up good.

I guess there’s something to it. Though now, as I see my mother wiping down the salt and pepper shakers, I see a woman whose hair has grown grey even though her hairstyle has stayed the same -- rolled up loosely in a bun at the back with bobby pins stuck in firmly. I see a woman whose fingers have knotted into stiff sticks from folding the laundry exactly the same way over the last 40 years.  I see my mother who decided to carry this badge of childbirth and childrearing so greatly that she missed the memo when Johnny, the youngest, left home to go to College, and still cooks an extra plate of food for dinner, just in case he comes back. 

I watch my mom now, putter through the house, with a broom and duster tied to the back of her apron – a resourceful contraption she made on her own that makes her cleaning so much easier.  This woman who made all my lunches, took care of everything from making my bed, to keeping my socks matched, to taking my temperature and putting out my chewable vitamins. She used to put our pencils and erasers in order for when we came home to do our homework. She’d even make banana bread every Friday afternoon as a treat for getting through the week.

“Hey, Mom, I bought these flowers for you. I thought of that summer when the bluebells took over the garden and we were running around the backyard through your clean laundry on the line.”

She took them and replaced them with the garden-cut flowers that were withering. “Oh, this purple will match the fabric on the couch so well,” dismissing any memories of us laughing and playing.

“Hey, Mom, I got the job at the library – it’s pretty good pay.”

“Oh that’s good. You used to read all the time. Couldn’t get your head out of those comic books,” Mom replied while dusting the mantle of the shelf, picking up the family photo with Tommy and his toothless smile. 

“Ya, I like the people, too. They said they’re glad they have me as a boss – I think the guy before me was a bit…”

“…like your father…?”

Mom had never said anything bad about dad before. Never. For all of his anger and beating us.  For all of his drinking and throwing us to our rooms. Mom never let on that she believed he was a hard man to live with. 

“uh….” I said, not knowing how to respond. 

I could hear the football game in the room with fake wood panels. Dad was sitting there in his polyester Lazy-Boy watching the game, perpetually shouting insults at every player’s wrong move – as if he could do it better.

After all my years in therapy, after all the ways I’ve been trying to show mom that there is a better way of life and she doesn’t have to live like this, and having mom defend this man, finally she admits that this man who she has dedicated her whole life to, could very well be an asshole.