Dirty Dishes

I don’t know where to start, and I don’t know where to go.

The fabrics need washing and the tub needs scrubbing,

but I don’t know what goes where or how.

Can you hear me, Mama?

It’s me, your daughter,

Your youngest, your Frances.

I think that’s what you called me.

Is that what you called me all those years ago?

I can hardly remember sometimes.

Can you hear me, Mama?

I’m down here failing. I’m down here wasting away.

Everyone says to look for you in the breeze.

I do.

Everyone says to think of you when the little red bird perches on my porch.

I do.

But I don’t remember you because of a red bird or a wandering breeze.

I think of you when I’ve let the dishes pile up too high,

Or when the floors need scrubbing.

I think of you when I’m folding the fresh laundry and wiping the counters with bleach.

The bleach makes me think of your hands and

how you’d use them to push away my tears in the dressing room

when none of the clothes fit right and I wanted to die.

They always smelled of bleach.

And they always smelled safe.

Can you hear me, Mama?

I’m down here coping—I’m down here wishing I’d done it all a little differently.

I’m wishing I’d listened to you a little more, listened to myself a little less.

I’m wishing you could come over and see all the dishes,

Scoff at the pile of clothes on the floor.

I’m wishing you’d help me find the pieces that I’m missing—the pieces that are keeping me from completely living.

Can you hear me, Mama?

I can’t stop the dishes from piling,

Or the laundry from building,

Or the cavernous feeling of loss.

But I’m trying.