|Soot marks - NOT a good sign on a major appliance|
"It's gone," he said. "It's gone."
"Not necessarily," I said, determined to hold onto my dream - you know, that one where dishes are washed at the touch of a button? And no one bickers? "Maybe something fell through onto the heat element," I suggested. "Remember the chopstick incident?"
"Mom," said Brian, patiently, "it's too late. Something burned out. We need to let it go."
"No!" I said, yanking open the blackened door and peering inside. "Hey, it stopped in the middle of the cycle. There's still water in there. Maybe something jammed the motor. We can fix that."
"Look," said Larry. "It's 15 years old. It's broken. Something caught fire. We're not fixing it."
You know, I need to remember not to name that man as the decision maker in my living will. Can you picture it? "Doc, she doesn't run as well as she used to. And now she broke a part. Just pull the plug, will ya?"
Anywhoo, I'm devastated. That dishwasher entered our family after we had been washing dishes by hand for over 2 years. It was gifted to me by the daughters of my dear deceased friend, and every time I used it - every time, meaning twice a day - I thought of her and thanked her for knowing how to pick out a decent appliance. Crazy as it sounds, I feel as though I've lost her all over again.
I know, I know - I mourned the previous dishwasher, too, but that was different. That was a youthful, impulsive love, one based on looks and glamour. And where did that get me? Less than 2 years in, the relationship was over.
But this? This dishwasher knew what it was to make a commitment. It had served its previous owner for 11 years. It served us for 4 more. Ours was a relationship built on the assurance that we would always be there for each other, until drastic mechanical failure do us part. And now, here we are. Again.
O Maytag! My Maytag! Our fearful trip is done!
Our dishes stacked in every rack, no load left unrun;
Repairman's here, dishwasher dear, the children all exulting,
While follow eyes his steady hand, his toolbag grim and daring:
But O heart! Heart! Heart!
O, the shaking of his head!
On the floor my Maytag lies,
Fallen cold and dead.