Retirement resolution

My wife is dead. However, pleasantries from her past linger and come to life in the blink of an eye. When I retired from the bank, my foremost resolution was to help her in the kitchen. I had often heard my wife telling my children that she ought to have been born an octopus—even eight arms would not have been enough to deal with the day-to-day toil and striving. Yes, it was too tough for her to jostle through the daily household chorus. Earlier, I had never intruded into the kitchen. I didn’t think I was useful in that domain. As in all families, the kitchen is my wife’s domain, which she runs with an iron mitt. It was held sacred to my wife’s own management.

As such, I had no epiphanies whatsoever to keep me engaged after retirement. I did not have any world-shaking ideas except to spend a good deal of time at home. Since the kitchen is a great place to be of service to my wife and to keep myself engaged, I started learning the field of play.

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I started familiarising myself with the various kitchen items and where they were. In the process, I rearranged the kitchen utensils and the spice rack to make it better. Though it irritated my wife, she never bothered to change them back. Perhaps she knew how to pick her battles. Nagging me about cleaning up the mess was not one of them. She was too serene for that. In fact, she even smiled every time she saw the things laid out all over the place.

One morning, scooping up the coffee cup that was turned over on the table, she made her way to the sink. There was a plate and a small skillet that had egg residue stuck to the inside—I had tried my hand at making my own tea and breakfast. She took the coffee cup, cleaned it, and placed it on the rack. She scraped the skillet hard to clean it. This has left me with a deep sense of guilt that I caused her more discomfort rather than alleviating it by intruding into her domain.

In spite of all this, it was her grace that put a smile on her face. She must have felt that at least I cared enough to try. And she didn’t mind picking up after her man. As a matter of fact, it was sort of a pleasant feeling to know that she cares about me. After all, she was my wife, and I am her husband. It was her right as a woman. It was like a privilege. It didn’t bother her when she had to clear the mess I created. In fact, it made her smile inside a little when she came behind me, anticipating a mess and trying to sort it out. Perhaps it was her way of saying, “I love you.” I miss her.