I cringe every time I pass the sink during the day. Bowls sit in a stack, scraps of soggy cereal clinging to the sides. The glasses are sticky with rings of congealing milk. Tealeaves, from morning tea, partially clog the drain’s strainer. Last night’s baking dish sits half-full of oily water, barbeque sauce softening. Clean dishes rest around the sink, tipped upside down and dry, ready to be placed back in cupboards.
However, if I suffer a sudden heart attack, I am almost certain my dying thought won’t be: I neglected to do the dishes one last time.
So, I ignore them and write.