dishes

you remember
watching
your mother
over the sink
washing
another dish,
another pan,
rinsing out
a cup, a pot,
a baby bottle.
placing
everything to
the side on
a cloth towel
to dry,
her hands
red from the hot
water, wiping
the tears
away and
her smiling,
saying go
to bed, go to
bed it's late.
i'm fine, okay,
then looking back
out the small
window for
your father, for
his car to arrive,
which never did.