February 3, 2026

the repair

Look at us, buoyant after a Sunday afternoon spent returning the dishwasher
to good working order. Days later, we are still grinning, giving high fives
as we pass by the spot where a week ago, it took six towels to staunch
the river on the kitchen floor. Just this morning, over second cups of coffee,
we marveled again. “And we didn’t argue once!” you exclaimed, nearly
giddy, as I stood in socked feet that didn’t, by the grace of our handiwork,
get wet. It’s true, we followed the instructions, didn’t skimp
on tools, took turns with the needle-nose pliers and the flashlight and the tight
squeeze of our arms under the machine. But these alone wouldn’t have turned
our breakfast into a celebration, the feeling of sliding two plates dotted with
remnants of raspberry jam into the slot on the bottom shelf, a certitude that
when it was time, we could push a button and step away until the cycle
was complete. What we know now is more than the mechanics of an intake
valve, or the name of the part that tethers it all to the hose. It is that place
in each of us coming awake at the doorstep of repair. How we wouldn’t
back down. How we helped each other through.