On Broken Faucets (and waiting)

Things are harder than they have to be. Faucets break and disposals jam, I feel like I’m flying from one task to the next in a hurry to fix one thing before another one breaks, but in the frantic frenzy to pull my toolbox out an entire bottle of ammonia gets knocked over and noxious fumes fill the room as it pools under my dryer. It’s supposed to get easier. Things are supposed to work out for the good and people are supposed to keep their promises and damnit nobody ever said it would be this hard. 

And so. On hands and knees I sop up the ammonia with the dirty dish towels that have accumulated in my hamper. And then I try to replace the cartridge in the broken faucet and every piece that the nice man on the YouTube video says should “slide right out” is stuck. And it’s my first time and I’m doing all this alone so I open another tab and google “why is my cartridge stuck?” And I’m reassured by Men Who Know More About These Things that I could break it if I try to force it so the best thing to do is douse it in white vinegar and give it time. And that’s only hard when you feel like you’re running out of time or when you think maybe you’ve missed your chance. But they know more than me and I’m absolutely terrified of breaking something else so I let it sit a while as I stew over my big mug of tea. It’s warm and comforting and it feels like a hug, but in this moment I feel so very alone and abandoned. 

By the time I reach the bottom the soothing liquid’s gone cold. I hold my breath and give the cartridge a gentle nudge and I see her budge ever so slightly and then release. It feels like a reminder from God and the universe to be patient, to not force things, and in that moment I want to flip the whole wide world the bird. Instead I rush to finish fixing the faucet and damn if I get that thing reassembled and my hot water still doesn’t work. 

Refusing to accept defeat I take it all apart again, this time it’s easier, the pieces that are supposed to slide right out do just that and it’s my second time taking it apart so it all feels natural, familiar. And yet- I don’t rush. Slowly, methodically, piece by piece I go all the way back to square one. I take my time, painstakingly cleaning out every nook and cranny. The cartridge is new, but the same sediment that jammed the old one is still lingering in the dark places of the faucet’s heart. Carefully, lovingly I remove the debris. Slowly, methodically I put it back together again. On my knees, I turn the valve and say a silent prayer. I push the handle and water springs out, warm at first and gradually heating as it flows over fingers that reek of ammonia and vinegar. Before I know it it’s even hotter than the tears that stream down my face. 

I look up at the letter board that sits above the sink and notice the “F” in “Thankful” is crooked and it only irks me for a second before I find it oddly amusing, like it’s given its last “F” too. I can’t help but laugh.