queen of the world / taiyaki galaxy

witches don't know about my secret identities

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we don't talk about ourselves anymore. we're far too smart for that.

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The suds stick to my hands, tracing the creases of my palms. A torrent of water splashes off the smooth surfaces of the bowl I'm currently scrubbing. I find myself wishing for an apron without a hint of irony. Ever since I returned three weeks ago, this has become my routine. We recently got a dishwasher, so it's pretty easy on me, but I kind of relish carrying out this simple chore, it gives my body something to do while leaving my mind free to tend to its thoughts. The sound of the running faucet has a soothing effect and the kitchen view provides a setting of contemplation that differs from my room. My mom is a busy woman. She runs an eye clinic downtown and drives to work each day. She leaves in the morning, in a flurry of worry and confusion, trying not to forget her watch, keys and coffee. On rare occasions, when I wake up early enough to see her off, she gives me an absentminded peck on the cheek, tells me that lunch is in the fridge and stumbles out the front door, declaring exasperatedly, 'I'm sooo late... The patients will be waiting'. Understandably, she doesn't have time to do the dishes before leaving, so my usual morning/afternoon routine includes being greeted by a pile of crockery and cutlery, stacked haphazardly in and around our sink. But like I said, I don't see it as a hassle or inconvenience, but simply a speed bump. A necessary change of pace.

As I grab the dishcloth hanging from the handle of a nearby kitchen drawer, I am reminded of the main character from Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, Toru Okada, and how he is relegated (liberated?) to the role of househusband after quitting his job, doing mundane chores around the house and finding a peculiar delight in doing them. I wonder if reading that book has coloured the way I view performing menial tasks - if this perception is derived from that character's perspective. At this moment, I find myself identifying with him quite strongly - at home with nothing to do except wait for the breadwinner's return. The day feels like a prelude, a period of preparation as I ready myself to receive her crumpled figure, laden with paper, emerging from the darkness of our tiny porch, exhausted from a full day of work. As I scrub each dish, watching the patches of oil and foodstuff disappear, I rid myself of some of the guilt at not being able to provide in her stead. Not yet. I bring this chapter of thought to a close as I finish putting away the last plate, a wide ceramic disc with its edges decorated by drawings of fish in blue chinese ink, a large blue koi sitting frozen in the center. Now, I wonder, what should I think of next? Song lyrics, perhaps? Fall Out Boy? Sounds good. The sound of a young man's ardent wailing echoes down the empty hallways and rooms of their modest apartment, shifting erratically from operatic falsetto to crackling baritone in order to compensate for his severely limited range, but it doesn't in any way diminish the gusto of his performance, this voice that belongs to a boy that has discovered the well kept secret joys of being alone at home.