I recall one evening after dinner; I had come back into the kitchen to help clean up. My mother was standing at the sink washing dishes, humming very quietly to herself. In the overhead light, dozens of small bubbles sparkled in front of her; sometimes she looked up to watch them as they danced up and away. She was smiling. She held a sponge in one hand, a small sieve in the other, swishing it lightly back and forth, up and down, slowly through the sudsy water and the little bubbles would pop up in clouds with each dip through.
I laughed. She turned and grinned at me in childlike delight, totally unembarrassed.