Dishes. How I hate thee. You pile up oh so high, never failing to re-accumulate upon my counter, even when I’ve put the very last one of you away. Why must you be so pesky? Why do you venture out of your little hiding places to see the light of day? I suppose it must be awfully dark in those cupboards where you dwell, but could it really be that bad that you cannot remain for even one day without venturing forth?
I suppose it isn’t really your fault, after all. I know it’s my job to take care of you, to clean you and put you safely back in your bed when you wander out at night.
Maybe I’m more upset with myself, than I am at you. Maybe I’m frustrated at myself for using you, for the need to have to eat.
Maybe I feel tired and burdened, and I do not wish to use you as I do. I mean, after all, you get to taste the little morsel, only to have it quickly removed. How dull to be you.
My hate wears away and turns to pity as I think of all I’ve done to you.
Oh, you poor dishes! How wretched your lives must be. And all done in selflessly serving us some much needed nourishment, and an occasional treat on the side. How cruel we’ve been to you, how awful you’ve been treated. Alone in the dark, cold, hard, ceramic touching one another, submerged in sudsy water, a steaming bath or scorching shower. To be left out to dry, naked and alone.
I’m sorry, poor dishes, for being mad at you, when really, you should be mad at me. How clumsy I’ve been, as I’ve dropped your friend, shattered to pieces, one who is no more. And still, you’ve selflessly served me, through all the gunk and grime, the temperature extremes, wet and dry.
You’ve been there for me when no one else was. And maybe, dear dishes, that is why you consistently sneak from your cozy beds, keeping me company, far into the night.