DISHES

It was nothing,

the way late light

fell through the kitchen window —

the moon, half golden

like it was every dusk.

_

You were washing dishes

from our meatball supper

the ones you married dad with

the chipped ones with faded flowers

not speaking,

but not silent either.

I think you hummed.

Maybe.

_

I was too busy with some nonsense

to notice the mundane

as if the clock ticking

wasn’t the same one

marking the end.

_

And that was all.

_

For years I'd wash those dishes with tears,

the flowers long gone, just pale bone and age.

George would beg for plastic

but I served on tear-streaked porcelain.

_

Until one night

late light

fell through the kitchen window —

the moon, half golden

like it was that dusk.

And there was a new dirty set of dishes in the sink

dishes with butterfly wings dirtied by meatballs I didn't make.

-

George smiled softly from the door swell

and I cried washing them

not with tears

but with the light falling through the kitchen

and George's breath on my neck

humming.