Dishpan Hands

The sight of it sickens me.
Mayonnaise left clinging to the plate.
She’d scold and say,
“When will you change?”

It’s not a hard concept.
Just rinse the dishes when you’re through.
Her complaints never ceased.
Now we’re washing for no one.

Echoes of those moments linger
from another place and time,
when I wasn’t alone,
her words lost in the wind.

I recall thinking she was mad.
“It’s nothing,” I’d dismiss with ease.
Instead of just complying,
I sat stubborn in my own decrees.

Now the dishwater scalds my hands,
hot enough to burn my skin.
Scrubbing away the remnants of the past
as if it could cleanse me of my sins.

My mind drifts to a bleak end
when I felt my life slipping away.
Stubborn pride and dishpan hands —
these are my remnants today.

As the water rises in the sink
I’m forgetting it, somehow.
My thoughts wander to another time
when I thought I had it all figured out.

I told her I just didn’t care.
Said it meant nothing to me.
She took each word to heart.
Believed every line so literally.

Now afternoons are hollow
and nights stretch on endlessly.
It’s just the dirty dishwater
that keeps me company.