Everything but

 

It was a peaceful time. I washed dogs and leafy greens, bathed children and dogs, filled jugs and bowls. Saw colanders and pots. I was an integral part of the family. They couldn’t function without me. Thanksgiving Day was not Thanksgiving Day without a fully kitchen sink. There were other sinks. Ones in bathrooms, debased by the associated activities therein. I was different. I was on center stage, every meal that mattered. Oh, how we laughed. 

Then things started to change. The father got indicted by a federal grand jury for witness tampering. I wasn’t familiar with the concept, but it sounded bad. I was used to dealing with shady plumbers, but they were people who worked with their hands. They had a trade. Slowly, items in the home began disappearing. First the kids would take things, then strangers. Assets were seized and everything started to go. I watched as dining furniture, chairs I had practically grown up with leave without even a goodbye. Light fixtures and molding. Grout and chair rails. It was starker and starker. I didn’t understand the reason behind the culling, but I noticed it.

Then one day, I was the only thing left. There were some pipe fittings, but the water was turned off. And a sink without water is a man without a soul. They took everything, everything but me. I took it personally. Who wouldn’t? I mean, I’m not a person, but close enough, simply circling the drain. 

I ended up in architectural salvage, finding my way into a bohemian art gallery. A dry kitchen sink representing the emptiness of society. I went from a utility to a metaphor.