I sit and listen to the clinking of Silverware against the rushing of water. The Glasses and Mugs were done about a minute ago, and the Bowls & Plates will be next. I can sense the stillness of your work which is contrary to what I was told: a few years back, you used to accidentally end the life of one Dinnerware quite a number of times. They say you are still clumsy even now, only more careful than before.

You see, I only got to be in this household a couple of weeks ago and I know for sure you will replace me after about a month. I will be put aside for the snooty Pans and Pots and all the other Kitchenware with deeper stains. By then it means Mr. Dirty Spongy will only have a few days before being disposed.

Ah yes, Mr. Dirty Spongy – the one which is fond of telling me about stories in the past. He’s presently in-charge to wipe Miss Stainless Sink, which of course is your doing, and he’s now counting the days of the last phase of his service. Better served by passing on anecdotes, he told me, which include a story of you letting out a beautiful melody while washing the Dishes as you were listening to Mrs. Gossipy Television belting out the same tune. You would sing randomly even without the prompting of Mrs. Gossipy Television though. How I wish I would hear it someday. Now, only your deafening silence remains amidst the household’s unharmonized sounds.

After you put the last Plate on Ms. Shiny Dish Rack, you dry your hands and turn away towards Mrs. Gossipy Television. I can sense you’re lost in your deep thoughts, which is quite the norm for you these days. I often wonder how profound you must be feeling but unfortunately, it is a question that is always left unanswered. The only thing I am certain of is that what you do feel is definitely not the same pain we sometimes feel, as what Mrs. Gossipy Television matter-of-factly reminds us of while blabbering about “human emotions.” I never truly understand it.

You then switch off Mrs. Gossipy Television a few moments later and sit on Mr. Fluffy Sofa to read a Book. From the distance, you hear your grandmother in the bedroom as she listens to Mr. Humorous Radio, her usual bedtime routine.

A few days ago, for about the eighth time since my first day, Mr. Humorous Radio shared the story of your parents who had long been gone in this household. Mr. Humorous Radio often tells us a joke that they left because they no longer wanted to deal with this home and every object in it that’s “all so basic”. Worn out, the most of us. We surmise your parents would return for your sake though, who knows – or, which knows? You now live here with your grandmother, anyway, who is fondly cradled by good ol’ Miss Dainty Rocking Chair every morning.

I know you don’t know this but every night, when you and your grandmother are soundly sleeping and the only movements are the occasional shifting of snoozed animals, we come “alive” and pass on old and new stories. We tell each other how we perceive this world and how we observe both humans and animals alike go about their day. During these moments of pass-the-message, I get to know a lot of stories that happened prior to my functioning existence.

This evening seems different though. As you now enter the bedroom, you make a different noise. A high shrieking voice just like how I hear it from Mrs. Gossipy Television’s shows. You get out, and while panicking, Mrs. Gossipy Television discreetly delivers the message of seeing your tears streaming down your face. You urgently grab Mr. Snappy Telephone while breathing heavily against his mouthpiece. It takes a few minutes before you go back to the bedroom. About twelve minutes later, an Ambulance can be heard from the distance.

We continue with our pass-the-message till the next morning. It is rare that we get to be free of humans in this household, Mr. Dirty Spongy tells me. Until when this will last I am not sure, he adds. One thing is certain though. We can carry on like this until our natural disintegration but no humans means no new stories to share.

Two days pass by with the same old stories repeatedly spoken around and Miss Sturdy Door still hasn’t budged a bit. I wonder what happens next. Would I ever get the chance to pass on my own anecdote to the next newcomer Kitchen Sponge? That is, if there would ever be one.

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