Water sputters from the faucet in slow, stilted plops, and even before stepping foot in the kitchen, I know I will discover Grandma standing solemnly before the sink in that simple flowered dress of hers. I am moved each time I see her thus: thin strands of grey atop a head bent sharply in concentration; shoulders hunched over the near-empty basin; bony forearms resting upon towels she has placed strategically on the countertop to protect against its hard surface; and those hands — spidery purple veins protruding grotesquely through wrinkled, paper-thin skin — those hands moving slowly, oh-so-slowly, as she rubs the soapy sponge over the curve of her soup bowl once more.

She straightens her back when she senses my presence, well-aware by now that I cannot bear the sight of her toiling away at that simple dish for so long. I hover about the kitchen restlessly, consumed with guilt and reluctant to put my glass down because I know she will want to rinse it too.

“Are you finished with that glass?” she asks suddenly. I am surprised she has already noticed. “Yes,” I tell her. She gestures to the countertop beside the sink and I brace myself for the familiar exchange to follow. “Leave it here then,” she says in her lilting English accent. “No, Grandma, please leave the dishes,” I plead, “I should be washing them, not you!” “No, no, it’s just a few, don’t worry,” she insists, “Leave your glass here. Leave it here and go.”

I stand beside her still clutching my glass. She is shorter than me now and much smaller. As she shifts her weight from side to side, my gut clenches and I envision those fragile bones in her body jarring together uncomfortably like the dishes in the plate rack beside her. “You look tired,” I tell her as she continues rinsing the bowl. “Aren’t you tired, Grandma?” She says nothing, simply places the bowl on the rack to dry before picking up her sponge again. Her sense of hearing has diminished over the years, and I speak louder this time. “You should be resting, not washing dishes, Grandma.” “Oh no, I have plenty of time to rest!” she exclaims.

She lifts a spoon as I look on, helpless to stop her short of wresting the utensil from her shaky hands. I feel a tinge of impatience at the slowness of her movement and then I am ashamed. “Let me wash the rest,” I repeat weakly, already knowing her answer but needing to offer nonetheless. There is a moment of awkward silence. “I like to do a little work,” she finally replies. Then the command, cloaked in that disarmingly gentle tone of hers: “Leave your glass and go.”

She is a proud woman, even at eighty-three years of age, and my pained pleadings are an exercise in futility. Defeated, I slide the glass onto the countertop. My eyes light upon an empty soup container by the sink. It is large – so large it can barely fit in the sink – and I hate to think of her labouring over it. “You mustn’t wash this, Grandma,” I tell her, “I’ll take care of it when you’re finished.” “Okay then,” she returns cheerily, “I’m almost finished here anyway.” She continues soaping and washing, eyes trained on the utensil in her hand, and I feel a bit of grudging pride that this woman yet to cede her independence. I wander over to the kitchen table and settle into a chair with the day’s newspaper in hand. And I wait. We have perfected this game, Grandma and I, and I know that when I look up again, the sink will be empty and Grandma will be wiping her hands dry with a solemnity that belies her broken promise.