This week has just been full of defeat for me. It seems that nothing can go right, from my job search, to my writing, to the kitchen remodel. We are now dealing with a leaky dishwasher of epic proportions. The kind of epic where everyone drowns in the sea.
I was on the computer, filling out my thousandth job application, when Brian walked into the room.
“Hey, come with me a second,” he said.
So I left the computer and went with him to the kitchen.
“Just look,” he said.
I looked. I had put the shelf up two nights ago for our cookbooks, hung my aprons on the wall, and replaced most the utensils. The glossy cabinets gleamed white, the butcher block countertops gave it a homey air. Under the window was the vast farmhouse sink, pot of pink flowers tucked next to the rubbed brass faucet.
“You said you didn’t feel like anything was going right this week,” said Brian, “but isn’t it beautiful? I mean, it’s not perfect, but we’re making headway and it’s looking better than I ever imagined.”
I felt his palms spread lightly over my shoulders, and pressed my back into his chest. I thought about the leaky dishwasher, the drawer that lost its support mechanism, how we don’t have handles on everything yet. But he was right. It looked good.
I felt just a smidgeon better.