Dirty Dishes

In an attempt to fix it, I made dinner.  Comfort food that my mama used to make.  Braved homemade biscuits.  And then stared at my tiny kitchen and realized I needed to wash the dishes.

One side of my sink is clogged.  The garbage disposal is broken and when I run the dishwasher, dirty water backs up and fills that basin.

I washed a few old dishes first.  Too old, too crusted with old food, too long sitting in the dirty sink.

I thought about Larry.  When we eat together, he never lets me wash the dishes after dinner.  Dishwashing is his therapy.  Because you dirty a dish, you wash it, and it is clean then.  You can put it away.  It is a mess you have the solution for, a mess that can be remedied.

I stood at my sink, my apartment filled with the smell of good food and burning candles.  My cheeks are raw and salty from all the tears I've cried today.  A year's worth of tears, coming all at once.  I scrubbed at the bowls and pots and pans.  I watched the clean, soapy water turn brown.  Cool down.  Fill with what is unclean.

I scrubbed.

And scrubbed.

You are supposed to find relief in the washing of dirty dishes, because you can wash them.  Clean them.  Put them away.  You can find a solution to the mess and fix it.

But these dishes would not get clean.

I washed what I could and left the others in the sink, soaking in soapy water.

That's all I could do.  The mess stares at me now, piled not as high as before in the sink beside me.  Still piled, though.

I knew this day would come.  As sure as I know my own name, as sure as I know my own heart.  I knew today would come.  There are a lot of other days I also know will come -- they just haven't yet.  There's some relief in the foreknowing.  There's only a little relief in the coming to pass of something apprehensively anticipated.  But only a little.

There are some dishes I don't know how to get clean.

There are some pots, so encrusted with decisions and consequences and the fruit of choices, no amount of scrubbing will get them clean.

But I had counted on this.  On the getting clean.

The raw feeling of eyes cried dry, the scrubbed feeling of cheeks wiped and covered.  Tonight, it feels like a stomach bug.  As disgusting of an analogy as I can work up.  At some point, you have nothing left.  At some point, you've emptied yourself of all of whatever's made you sick.  And yet your body still heaves, still retches.  Now your eyes blink, sure there is more salt where it all came from.  You're not done yet, your lashes whisper as they dry.

These dishes won't get clean.

And I'm not done with my tears.