The Blue Sink

 Recently in a Facebook group I'm in for writing moms, someone posted a challenge to write a 100 word piece about the thing to your left and the colour of your shirt. I was sitting on the toilet (yup) so the thing to my left was the sink, and my shirt was blue.

A blue sink.

A story immediately unfolded, but it was 280 words, so I didn't post it in the comments. But I can post it here!

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash

When people ask me about my grandma, I always think of three things:

- the smell of stale coffee

- the caramel candies she'd slip me

- and the blue sink.

I used to lean up against that sink and watch her squint into the mirror as she layered on her foundation and mascara. We used to brush our teeth together too, and spit at the same time. We would blow bubbles with our hands while we sang the hand-washing song. The water would drain so slowly and I would balance over the edge and spend several minutes just poking the bubbles as they lowered into the drain. I remember my own dirt handprints on the edges when she lifted me to wash my hands after we had planted cucumbers and tomatoes or tulips together. I never forgot how the drops of blood spattering on the blue and swirling in the water looked after I split my chin open on the front steps outside. Grandma coaxed me gently to rinse and spit as her strong arms held me against the cold sink. 

After Grandma died, we went through all her things and updated the house so we could put it on the market. 

The blue sink sat discarded at the end of the yard. Whatever was left of the blue that wasn't chipped away got splashed by passing cars. It became an unrecognizable piece of trash burying deeper into the muddy grass. 

When they threw it into the back of the garbage truck I had this strange image in my head of a tiny Grandma and a tiny child version of me swirling and swirling around in the sink until we disappeared down the drain.