Dirty Dishes

Dirty Dishes--Shawnee
Warm water running over
The red chapped knuckles on the back of my hand.
Squeezing frothy bubbles from the porous blue sponge,
I smell artificial green apples.

Where to start?
Glaring weakness, shortcomings, failings,
Bared for all to see
Spotlighted by the natural light in my window;
My imperfections displayed to all--
My perceived failings as a mother and wife,
My sink full of dirty dishes.

Each meal it seems more hopeless,
A mountain that increases until
I can't face it anymore.
I hide.
I serve bananas for breakfast,
A picnic on the grass for lunch--
Paper plates, chips, peanut butter sandwiches, and apple slices.
I can't quite face my nemesis, not yet...

When the smell of rotting food and sour milk
Finds me even in my most deliberate avoidance,
I must face it.

I start with a cup, a spoon,
I think about each of my children,
The cross words I've snapped at them,
The time I've spent criticizing instead of complimenting.
I delve a bit deeper, each dish a bit dirtier.
I think of complaining to my husband
For working late or being grumpy,
Using a sharp tongue instead of kindness.

I scour at the caked on bits of burnt eggs,
I run steaming water over grease,
I rinse, feel for missed bits of rough old food,
I scour and rinse again.

Layer after layer I tackle
Until, FINALLY, even the sludge
At the very bottom is scooped out,
Ground in the disposal, or rinsed away.
I inhale deeply, I feel so free,
I can finally breath again.
I no longer have to hide...
I can do better,
I will do better,
I'll try to do better.
Yet I know
The next meal
Will begin a new battle.