by Kyllikki (kyllikki8@hotmail.com)
***
His fingers slip and slide along the smooth facets of the marble as he probes each crevice with the soapy water, guiding it into the channels and grooves to sluice away the accumulated dirt of the past year. The water is hot, almost scalding his hands, and they tingle and throb as he swishes them through the basin, his fingers prunelike and misshapen.
What the hell do you think you're doing washing the dishes, Mikey? Jesus, look at your fingers, wrinkled just like a girl's. You think you're better than your own mother, cleaning up the kitchen like this? I'll show you.
He squats down on his knees and scrubs more vigorously now, water sloshing from the basin and splattering the surrounding artificial flowers. The droplets become rivulets, unloosing dust from the flowers' fraying petals and rolling down the stems, leaving tracks like smeared teardrops on the faces of dirty little kids.
I'm so ashamed that you made a scene back there. Never cry, understand? Logan boys don't cry. Especially in public. They'll look at me funny the next time I go in there, thanks to you. People will think your mother can't control her children.
The water in the basin -- water that ten minutes earlier had been clear, punctuated by groupings of cheerful soap bubbles floating lazily on the surface -- has now become murky as dirt combines with soap scum to create whirling gray patterns. Everything in the basin has been polluted, degraded by the dirt of its object. He knows it is the only way, though; in cleansing, the water sacrifices its purity for the sake of another.
I don't care what you want. You're lucky enough to be an altar boy and that means you go to church without complaint, understand? You should be thankful that Father Joe has taken such an interest in you. Lord knows I can't understand why he bothers, but he must see something that he likes. So you be grateful, you hear me?
He wipes his hands on his worn jeans before reaching for the next gallon of water. This time it is cool, and he relishes the feel of the liquid as he pours it over the rag. He takes the sopping mass and presses it up against the marble surface. Water squishes between his fingers and rolls down the backs of his hands, wetting the cuffs of his ratty sweatshirt, the one his dad gave him when he was still in high school. He pulls the rag over the surface in big loopy swirls, bold thick strokes worthy of painting a huge mural.
Michael, you made the card again, didn't you? I guess I'm not good enough for you to spend your money on. Even though you know I don't like this "art" stuff you're doing, you insist on shoving it in my face every year. Honestly, why can't you just spend your spare time at the gym getting ready for next season like a normal person?
Rinse completed, he wrings out the rag and tracks the motion of the cascading water as it crawls along the dried grass beneath. The parched ground eventually sucks up the meager amount of moisture, and evidence of its passing will soon disappear, as well. He stands up, shaking out his legs to get rid of the tingly sensation already beginning to course through them.
He retrieves a single white rose from his car and places it at the foot of the marble in a space between a pair of tattered fake lilies. Then he pauses to consider his work. The rose, already slightly limp, looks out of place, this living thing among so much desolation. Its petals flutter slightly in the breeze that floats by, looking for all the world like the death throes of a butterfly. The rose was dead when he bought it, he realizes, its lifeblood already severed by a pair of shears.
He sighs.
Closes his eyes.
"Happy birthday," he whispers.
-end-