The fight never stops, the enemy significantly outnumbers us. Every day there are three main waves, but the attack never stops completely, it is relentless.
When it seems that the enemy has been defeated, that the battle is over, that at least there will be a moment of peace. A breather, a brief space to attend to the wounded with balms and ointments in preparation for the next confrontation. A rival full of duty makes a side attack, kamikaze, suicidal, yet he achieves to deprive us of rest, undermines us.
Even exhausted, we continue. Even sick. Even injured.
King Leonidas had his three hundred Spartan warriors. Me, I only have my two hands against this endless army of dirty dishes.
Hordes of pans, plates and spoons storm the sink. Innocent little glasses lurk in the most unexpected place in the living room. While there are cups that tend their raid in the bedroom.
I don't expect to win this war, if at all to keep the enemy at bay.
Each dish fallen under the detergent returns to the attack covered in grease or stew. Hundreds, thousands have fallen. However, I know that hundreds of thousands are coming. They fill my future yet to be written.
Every day: Monday to Sunday, working days or holidays. The war continues without a rest. Especially after those celebrations full of joy and happiness, they undertake ferocious attacks, dishes are accompanied by glasses and platters of unlikely shapes.
However, like them, I remain in the front line. I protect my fortress. I will continue fighting until my last breath, even when the chronicle of this war predicts defeat.
Image: Photography by Hassan Almasi in Unsplash