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An Ode to Handwashing
The rumble begins from beneath the sink, bubbling up a delightful stream of water that emerges from the faucet.
A trickle at first, then a great gush of beautiful H20, tiny droplets misting into the air. It reminds me of a sweet summer rain, the flow of a mighty waterfall, the gentle rocking of the waves.
Water. Here to wash away filth and poison. My hands, the purveyors of my touch and the tools of my daily tasks, are contaminated. I desperately shove them beneath the water, sighing in relief as the cool fluid provides its soothing touch.
I reach for the soap dispenser, an unassuming vessel of gooey goodness. Pump, pump, squirt. A glob of soap swirls around my palm. It looks impotent, disgusting.
Just wait.
I blend the soap with the stream of water, rubbing my hands quickly together. The goo transforms into a bubbly delight. It soaks my skin in a comforting lather, a germ-slaying concoction.
Scrub, rub, scrub again. Twenty seconds’ worth. Under the nails, over the knuckles, down the wrists, across the palms. The soap sweeps the landscape of my hands, washing the dirt and microbes away.
Now comes the best part: the rinse. Luscious water rolls over the suds, pushing them into waves like those that lick the shoreline. The warmth travels up my arms and into my heart.
Clean. My hands are finally clean.
I gently dry away the excess water, enjoying the plushy comfort of the towel. I examine my hands. They feel renewed, ready to take on the world again.
Such a simple ritual, yet so powerful.
I wonder why more people don’t do it.
