Hiding His Reflection

There is an odd meditative quality in the task of washing dishes— I may have stated this previously somewhere. As a teenager I resented the chore, of course, but now there exists a calming release in the ritual of soapy water, bubbles and foam rising to the forearms— fingers massaging a sponge across a grimy play, a saucer, a drinking glass.

•49/ —and there are times when a sense of dread rises within his chest. Pan turns all mirrors toward the wall, hiding his reflection: the unkempt hair, the ancient green eyes
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