hands in the sink

I find an old friend at a funeral. overcast mid-afternoon the church I grew my teeth in. we hold each other in the foyer between the water and the eulogies.

back home after the service I'm washing dishes embarrassed by the state the house is in with so many guests. they're here to be fed and talk about themselves. they eat and talk. like them I don't have time to listen: food to stuff, dishes to clean. but there's more guests than hands in the sink. no sooner is the kitchen clean the sink is filled with new dishes dirtied. despite my best efforts there's no keeping up the china starts to overflow I start to sweat. someone says something about the gratification of cleaning after other people like they're buying their excuse to not offer their hands as though their dirty dishes are a gift they should be thanked for. I want to be where I am when I wake: hidden in my room under the covers. when I wake I want to go to church.