a short story
Each dish moved from sink to drainer. A slow, methodical process, but one by one, they each made it over to their mediary destination. One they would hold for the short while of drying before being taken to their place in the storage cabinets.
She reached in and grasped the next dish. Her hands felt slick in the soap and water. She understood the fragility her hands had in holding each piece. A single slip could see a glass falling to the floor, or a knife slamming against a ceramic plate, or against her own skin. Breakage was bound to occur were she not careful.
Yet her mind drifted elsewhere as she carefully worked through each and every dish. It drifted to the conversations being held in the other room, a scene she couldn’t decide on whether she was kept from or escaped from. The dichotomy of her feelings on the matter only served to confuse her. Family does that to a person.
In the meantime, the task was enough. She kept only enough thought on the chore as to not allow the confusion of the moment to overtake every corner of her mind.
Laughter came from the other room and she paused. Escape. That’s what she felt, the escape from the situation. Strange that a laugh brought her to that conclusion. Then there was the crash by her feet.
“Is everything alright in there?” a voice yelled as she paused to understand how the glass had fallen out of her hand.
“Yeah— yes,” she stuttered. “I’m fine. Just broke a glass is all.”
No reply came after, only the continued laughter of the group. Siblings, cousins, and other kin. Evidence to the general lack of concern, the lack of connection she felt with everyone. Why was she still there? Why had she not left her family at each junction where the opportunity became available? Instead, each time she remained, determined to accept that family was the most important thing.
Then why didn’t they ever make her feel that way?
Invisible was indeed how she felt. Discarded and broken, much like the pieces below her.
Looking down at the floor, she saw glass everywhere around her. She sighed, grabbing a towel to dry her hands. Then she stepped over to the pantry closet to get a broom and dust pan.
Yes, she was escaping the other room. As she knelt to clean the mess that would not be permitted to remain, she convinced herself that escape was a more comfortable feeling than being trapped. Her only worry was how many chances will she still get to?
Copyright © 2025 by Jeremy C Kester – all rights reserved.
Note: this is also cross-posted to Poetically Unlicensed on Substack.
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Jeremy C Kester 
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