It’s 10pm, lights out, time for sleep. Twelve houses await their final check and permission to clock off for the night. Soft steps through carpeted hallways mingle with jangling keys, their rhythm a playful allusion to Grandfathers steady ‘tick – tock’.
Old hallways conspire against silence, creeking as I slip through their maze. A soft, yet satisfying, ‘click’ of a switch causes darkness to descend. ‘Behind closed doors’, is a veil of secrecy, or anonymity. Few know the tales of those residing in each room. Perhaps the little mouse, deft in his evasion of every trap and bait, holds witness to the tears and hushed whispers behind these closed doors. Mostly he stays out of sight; but I wonder, does compassion lure him out into the open? Perhaps he senses their distress, and knowing the value of distraction, offers his presence to give some reprieve. Though he is but a tiny creature, he elicits full attention before scampering away, as if embarrassed by the commotion. In some instances, he pretends to cower, as if cornered, before contorting himself to escape through paper-thin gaps.
If you want to know what really goes on, the kitchen is the centre of gossip. Bins LOVE to talk; they’ll spill stories of what was made, consumed, rejected. They overhear all the conversations, the negotiations… I wonder if they are tired of rejected vegetables, and question when they will get their fair share of dessert? They’ve heard that bargain a thousand times… ‘three bites of veggies and you can have a treat’… surely by now they’ve had enough bites for a thousand treats? But before they can whinge about the injustice, or threaten to spill the secrets of the night, I deftly silence them, tying their tongue in a knot, escorting them out the door to the bin. If misery loves company, they will be happier here, commiserating with one another about the day. New bags quietly slip into place, not yet burdened, they are ready to eavesdrop on the day to come.
The dishwashers are most industrious, erasing all traces of the meals from just a few hours before. I seem to have caught them just as they finished their work, warm steam escaping as I open the door, hinting at the intensity of their labour. We play a game these days, how quickly can I release them for the night? They stand, jaw to the floor in shock as I am immune to the heat of the cutlery & crockery. It is a dance, this glide across the kitchen, opening of cupboards, stacking, closing again, back for more. They sigh as I shut them down, their sign swapping from ‘ON’ to ‘DIRTY’ – which really just means ‘open for business’. They know it’s only a matter of time til their work begins again.
The crockery – they are plain folk. Beautifully so; there’s no sharp edges or precocious air about them. The bowls, they can be a bit unsteady at times; it is through intentional practice they are able to stay in balance. Plates on the other hand, nothing seems to unsettle them. Perhaps the secret is they hold things loosely. If invited, they will happily share their key to this success: that which is indispensable is kept at the centre, the more frivolous things towards the edge. This, they say, is why it only takes the slightest bend to protect against careless loss. I ponder the simple wisdom they offer.
Smaller goods take on lives of their own… the spoons… well, they like to spoon! Perhaps they fear the dark and thus hang close to one another; each time I visit it seems that their family has grown. I am curious about their relationship with the others in that drawer, in particular, what they say to the forks…? Perhaps a bullying ‘fork you’, which sends them scurrying away… I am not sure where the forks hide these days. Some are so desperate to escape that they stash themselves in lunchboxes, eventually finding new homes in hospital kitchens. Others merely hide for a season; eventually they return, but rarely do they speak of where they’ve been. Perhaps some things are better left unsaid.
The magnet strip on the wall – truthfully, I hold concern for the object of its affection. Each time I visit, I hear the depth of its longing to connect with another. If love leaves an indelible mark of beauty – or pain, this magnet is determined to find out… Its deep longing is fulfilled as knives of all shape and size draw close. Their bond, so strong that it defies even gravity, is inspiring.
Pots and pans – they seem the fiery kind, always losing their lid… Wonder what sets them off? Maybe they’ve been simmering away, the tension unresolved, eventually reaching a boiling point… it’s not their fault, after all! Someone kept turning up the heat and something had to give! Perhaps they join with the forks, searching for peace. Kitchens are quite noisy after all.
And the mugs – they are oh so smug. Their impertinence is evident as they refuse to stay in lines. Crowding in chaos, they eagerly scream ‘pick me, pick me!’, hoping to be chosen for the high honour of holding the magic wake-up brew. Meanwhile, they’re peers, those glasses… they’re the steady ones. They may appear delicate, yet they carry themselves with strength. I wonder what the secret is? Perhaps it is their clear boundary… they refuse to hide who they are, yet they clearly protect what is valuable inside.
After a few minutes conversing with the kitchen, I move on, one final stop before the next house: the laundry. Another room buzzing with energy. The washers, they are the excitable ones. “Look at me, look at me!”, they gleefully spin and tremble, rinse, and spin some more. Nearby, the dryer takes a more reflective approach; pondering with rhythmic precision. ‘Ka-thunk’, ‘ka-thunk’, I hear each thought fall as it makes its way around. One must not be fooled by this appearance of a quiet meditative life. They will say they act as a sage, helping humanity to reduce their obsession with order and control. Really, I think it’s just a mischievous streak; secretly they love to witness unconventional pairings as people seek to avoid cold feet. There is a twinge of sadness to their pondering this evening, as the weather starts to warm there will be fewer socks to steal. It is this sadness that reveals their true intentions; a sage would not be disappointed in their pupil’s new-found freedom. I remind them of this and I am sure there is a pause in the rhythm of their thoughts. I leave them pondering this as I let them know them it’s time to rest. I whisper goodnight, shutting down the lights & pulling the door nearly closed, the hum quieting behind me.
At last all have been put to bed, and I return to my room, appreciating the stillness before I too drift off to sleep.