Squeaking

The containers squeaked.

White foam stacked on white foam,

resisting, then giving,

resisting, then giving,

the sound small but

insistent,

the kind of sound

that makes you aware

of your hands,

your grip,

the pressure you're applying

without thinking.

I was washing them.

Rinsing the grease,

the remains,

the evidence

of something

that had been good

and now was garbage.

The squeaking

kept happening.

Each container against

the next,

that specific friction,

that specific complaint

of material

being forced

to move

against itself.

It should have been

nothing.

It should have been

background.

But it was the loudest

thing in the kitchen,

this tiny protest

of foam

against foam,

this small

resistance

to the way I was

handling it.

I could stop.

I could put them down.

I could walk away

and let them

sit in the sink,

let the water

drain out,

let them dry

without this

constant squeaking

in my ears,

this reminder

that even

the soft things

have edges,

even the gentle

containers

have something

to push back

against

the pressure

of being cleaned,

being used,

being made

into nothing.