A Small Hand

I haven’t canned in five years.
I tried to move applesauce
From fridge to counter to canner.

Happily, only one shattered.

Unhappily, I had to redo the entire 30 jars.
Applesauce, so it seems, has to be hot to can well.

In the midst of the chaos of a kitchen
With almost every pot in use,
Boiling applesauce splattering;
In the midst of another too-many-hours project,
With the question always looming,
Is this the best use of my time?,

I asked my son to unload the dishwasher.

For some minutes he protested,
Coming up with an astonishing array of alternative suggestions,
Including the mind-boggling,
“Why don’t you do it?”

At which point I explained, mostly calmly,
That I was at imminent risk of burning,
That I was tired and not having fun,
And could he please just do his task with a good attitude?

Silence for some minutes.

The dishwasher was thoroughly emptied.

And then a small hand rested briefly on my back,
A gesture of apology and
Comfort.