She likes washing dishes. The feel of the cool water running over her hands, the soap suds, the act of making something clean again. It was a silent ritual, an unspoken prayer of singular devotion. As she hums to herself in the middle of the bubbles the dish washing soap makes in perfect harmony with the water she fancies them as the clouds, or sea foam, both things she has not seen in a long time.
She thinks of the bubbles as fluffy white clouds, telling of freedom and independence and vast plains and horizons as far as the eye would please to see.
She thinks of the soap suds as clean sea foam that bespoke of sunken treasure and countless adventures, of daring sword fights and lovely siren songs and the refreshing life there is to live outside the boundaries of four walls at home.
But alas, there are no clouds or sea foam, only bubbles and soap suds. It was not the sound of the sea but of the gushing of tap water over her raw hands. It was not plains she could see but mountains, mountains and piles upon piles of dirty dishes and glasses and utensils and pots and pans to wash and make clean to be dirtied and soiled again.
One can look at her and sigh and pity her. She was living the life nobody has dreamed to live. She has hummed a million songs and had the kitchen sink as her only audience, the clanging together of pots and pans her only applause. They only see her longing but do not understand her contentment.
But they only look, and not see.
They only hear, and do not listen.