The thrum of raindrops on the deck kept a steady pace and the curtains fluttered from the occasional breeze. I was standing at the kitchen sink, the scent of breakfast clung to the morning air as the girls delivered sticky plate after sticky plate to the counter. The slap of their bare feet rang through the house as they scattered to their rooms. Water sizzled, as it hit the still-hot frying pan, sending up a plume of steam.

I ran the sponge in circles, the soap’s lather thickening with the heat. The basin begin to fill and my vision blurred with the growing steam. I could hear the girls in the distance and I remembered a time beside another sink in a different house. The potent sentimental nudge stopped me; I reveled in the stillness of time’s visit. Upstairs I could hear the rat-a-tat-tat of the Cup Song, Briar and Avery’s voices layering over one another. Footsteps shook the ceiling as Finley ran to the room, “Guhls, guhls, can I sing too?”

I stopped the water, tracing my fingers through the suds. Still another memory rose. Two little girls at play, the quiet broken only by exclaims of wonder, “S’a rainbow bubble, you see?” and “You use mine.” My belly was full with the third girl who would come and complete our family. I can remember still the way I thought I might burst from the exquisiteness of the moment and of my joy.

I don’t consider myself a devoted cook, but on another lazy weekend day, I do consider myself a disciple of the memories that linger in the kitchen. My chapel and my salvation.