Ma. Cherry Ann C.

Arabis EdEng 4 Creative Writing Wed 8-11

To Wash or Not to Wash I hate to wash dishes. Its gross. Or so I think that it is gross. And when I count the times I have to wash the dishes, I just feel nauseated. We just finish our dinner when my father told me to do it before he left the table. And all I could say was damn, not again. I lost the appetite to eat. And my mother felt it. Just like what she always says, I know every strand of your hair. And I ask in my head, are you playing god or something? And my younger sister felt the change in my mood too. She instantly finished her food and hid inside her safe world. My father would play the deaf. I work so we have something to eat, my mother started. Men! Does that count? How is that connected to washing the dishes? Though I lost my appetite, something is telling me to shut up and still eat. My plate was half-done. I chewed my food much slower than my normal pace. I tried to keep my eyes lock somewhere somewhere that does not meet her eyes. Perhaps she could see the glint of red in my eyes. I was afraid shell see that glint. Because my father left the table early and my sister hid from view, I have to be on the table. I dont understand why I feel to do so. Maybe, I dont want mom to eat alone. Or I just want to eat; its just that I dont realize it. Perhaps I feel pity if she started talking and no ones there to listen. Anyway, I continued eating. What you have to do does not even match what I always do, she continued. As if washing dishes is on a level comparable to that you always do. I scooped some sabaw. Our viand for the night was law-oy. Anyone can do that, but not as skilled as I do. I looked at a particular saluyot leaf floating limply inside the bowl. And I just said, Im one of those leaves, limp, lifeless and about to be eaten. I scooped some amount anyway. I poured it on my plate and made a last look at the saluyot leaf. In a flash of a second, I didnt realize that I made a glance. She caught my eyes. My ears went ringing. My brain turned into an automatic shut off. And I feel fortunate not to know lip language. What? Though you dont answer back, I know what you want to do! Youre not even half of my age! Papunta ka pa lang, pabalik na ako! I even know what youre shit smells like...! Yeah, yeah, yeah... It is these times that I want to answer back. If she really knew what was inside my head, then shell understand that I hate to do it. As a parent, it is her role to understand what I feel. She knew she could ask me to do the laundry, fix electrical matter, lie to our neighbour that she isnt at home, but not to wash dishes. Just please dont let me wash the dishes.

If you could only see my heart, and know that it bleeds when I do that, then maybe you can spare some realization. She will understand that I dont want to do the dishes. But all she could see was the flaming glint in my eyes the rebellion that was in my eyes. I felt my eyes water. Perhaps the brain has some fire-busting feature an alarm to put off the fire in my eyes. The anger turned to pity. When you have something to say and someone important oppressed the right to talk, you just couldnt breathe. She finished her food but not her talk. I was left alone at the table. The bowl of law-oy was empty. It is quite crazy of me but in between the harsh words, I smiled. They emptied the bowl. That was more than enough. Slowly, our house returned to its dormant mode. The rats ran after the other they rumbled above the ceiling. Perhaps they also felt the tension subsides. I stood in front of the table and stared at the plates. I feel sorry for them. And they feel sorry for me. I once told my mother about inventing plates made of chocolates. So I dont have to wash. But she dismissed my creative idea and accused me of being lazy. I think it isnt being lazy just using initiative. I started arranging them. The wide and shallow plates were placed at the bottom and the small plates at the top. The spoons were put separate from the plates. I dont want to do this. Oy, those plates wont wash themselves, I turned and saw my father peeked in. Yah, got no choice here, I managed a smile. Not that I side my father when he just triggered my mother, its just that he is scarier. So perhaps Im afraid of my father thats why I can answer my mother. I realized I was thirsty, maybe not by the water but of her words. Sometimes they fuel me. My thoughts and emotions reach ranges. My hand caught a glass. I drank to my hearts content. I found myself washing the dishes. I ate my words. And as I look at the plates, I noticed the things I do with them. Im their mother. The plates were me. And right now, they feel fortunate to be clean. They were happy to undergo the process. And so am I. I still hate to wash the plates. But the plates want to be clean.