Dirty Dishes

On unseen efforts; a passerby in my own life

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I walk into the kitchen and all seats are taken. They are filled with people I know, and those I don’t. Of ghosts and hollagrams, of flesh and tears. No eyes set on me as I enter. My being does not fill the room like their laughter and joy does. I stand on the outskirts of my own family and blood, peering in like an outsider. All food is dished and served, most already consumed inside their gluttonous stomachs. I turn to the sink instead and move to clean their dirty dishes. I fear that is the only reason I am here. Not to be seated and served the warmth they have been given, not to boast in the ringing of laughter, not to commune with them as they do each other. I clean messes I do not make, I tidy spaces I do not disturb, I turn to tangible things needing fixing rather than stepping forward to the invisible strings I have left strained. With the sink full of clean water and soap, I scrub and scrub and scrub. The food on the plate does not wash off, despite the water dirtying. I scrub harder. I press harder. The muck does not budge. I pour hot water into the sink and let the plate sit idly in it. Moments go by and I scrub once more. The food comes off, the plate is clean, I rinse the soapy water off. Turning to the table and brushing the beading sweat off my forehead…my efforts go unnoticed. My sweat remains just sweat. The plate remains dripping into its rack. The water remains dirty. I fear if I were to bleed at my feet, desperating clawing to succeed, I will continue to go by unseen. And I the one, still, to clean the mess beneath me.

Unashamedly yours,

K x