The spoons are mocking me, eyes bleeding either red (spaghetti sauce?) or brown (nutella?) mournful gazes from the smooth steel sink.
I douse them in water, leave them to soak in biodegradable, hypo-allergenic, additive-free detergent. They sniff condescendingly at what appears to be soapless soap.
Every morning I have a run-in with a spoon. My short-long hair collects on one, wraps around the base of its head, and I cannot remove it until I find scissors, flustered, and make tiny angry snips until the rogue hair is trimmed.
Sometimes, there is no run in; they just stare at me. I can’t stare back. I can’t bring myself to stare back. They have seen it all, because they sit in the most private of rooms. They know what I have done in here. I do normal human things, and they know.
I think about my mother picking out these spoons, her long, slender fingers caressing the scrollwork handle, breathing, “Yes, I like these best.” Was it before I was born, or after? Does that matter?
Scrubbing the concave emptiness, I know if I looked hard enough, my reflection would be all wrong. It’s so often all wrong.