The guests are gone and the food is put away. I've loaded the dishwasher, but the sink is full of flour-crusted bowls and cheese-covered pots, spoons and knives and a pair of scissors for good measure. Patience went to bed, but William is asleep on the sofa behind me, and through the crack under my parents' door I see only darkness. My mom is sleeping by now, and I'm sure that in Washington, DC my dad is doing the same, trying to get as much rest as he can before he flies out early tomorrow morning. Where he's going is a mystery to me; I only know that this is his first time back to work in months, and his being gone now says that it really is a new year.
I turned off the classic country hours ago, but the sad Italian music only started floating through the kitchen after everyone was gone and it was just me and the piles of dishes and uneaten food.
When I get up tomorrow, I'll start the morning by washing dishes. New Year? Sure, sure, but it's the same life, and we just have to keep on going. And when we celebrate, we'd better make sure we know what we're celebrating, or all we're left with is a pile of dishes.
I happen to know what I'm celebrating, though. And it's worth a pile of dishes.
