Washing dishes, I find spaghetti-spotted bowl, spoon tipped with crust of jelly, shallow pool of milk in glass: corpses of last night's fast-finished feast. Suds spill over bowl and spoon and glass like snow at the start of winter covering all in soft, white simplicity. I break the bubbles, thrusting hands beneath. The dishes come to life, sing a tune of muffled chinks and clinks. Glass bumps bowl and spoon taps glass in clumsy, underwater dance. They cannot keep from making merry. This is new life.