Things we treasure, fluid as water in our memories. Memories that rock us back and forth, back and forth and keep us warm at night or when we need them most. It can be years from a special event, some details lost and washed away, but the important parts are there. There forever to influence the decisions we make now and sometimes our sense of security.

Nighttime was one of those times for me. Not the traditional tuck you in bed, pat your head kind of way, but one event, routine if you will, in particular stands out. Every time I go back there I can’t help but feel full, satisfied, wonderful in every way from my fingers to the tips of my toes. I get all swept up in it, let it wash over me and fill me up, just like I did back then.

I would lie under the table when I was young after dinner and listen to the clinking of the dishes in the sink and stare up at how the table was made. Support bar here, hinge there, shiny, sticky waxes, lubricants and varnish. I would look at my hands above my head and play with my fingers and hum. I would always hum or sing. I would always lie on my back too, not my stomach, and imagine Alice in Wonderland. She would make her way through the soapy bubble land and into one of the connecting bars of the table. I would sit like this for what seemed hours, drifting in and out of these daydreams. Humming all the while of course.

My mother always wore the same blue shoes. I remember watching her shuffle sided to side as she moved along with the rhythmic splish splash of the chore. And as she danced her feet would drown into the prismatic bubble world. While I lay there humming and listening in the chatter of the dishes, enjoying the steady rock a by movement of the cascading falls full of oversized teacups, saucers and fine silverware, and her feet.

It’s funny how everything has come to run together in my memory of these repeating nights. All the nightly activities as subtle, comfortable and warm as the trip to Wonderland. When I visit home now she has a dishwasher, but on some very special occasions, when her children or dishwasher don’t finished the job, she stands in front of the sink and I get taken back to the childlike hallucinations. I build more of this memory. I am home. I am secure.

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