Sink...ing

Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Kitchen sink


In a blinding flash it came to me. Literally blinding, as I felt myself wincing at the world around me struggling to stay upright. It was what had become my darkest day - one for the ages upon which I could reflect in my old age and remember how truly dark my origins had once been. It wasn't a rebirth, just a shitty day and it's a matter of personal disposition that my lowest points become yet another beginning. After all, were I to consider a mid-point, or perhaps even a mid to high point a beginning then I'd just be giving my experiences too much credit and ignoring the gut-wrenching value of emotional destitution.

This epiphany was a simple one and yet probably my most profound: the strongest bond I felt in my life, at the fragile and emotionally incontinent state that I knew as the age of 48, was to my dish rag. I hadn't stopped to think about it often enough I guess but in upon reflection I realized instantaneously that it was my centre. Close not because of sentiment, though it was knitted by my mother, but because of its longevity and reliability. It was a hideous, odorous, utilitarian, practical and ultimately disposable accessory that provided a familiarity in my life unlike anything I knew at that time or had recently experienced.