I am my Mother's Daughter

The dishes were piling higher and I couldn't take it anymore. They weren't my dishes, I fumed, and I'd be demmed if I was going to do them. The mess was grating on me but when you take a stand, you grit your teeth and let it ride. Then I started to crack, I took a step towards the middle. I dumped all the dishes into a sink full of soapy hot water and let them soak. My opponent left a dinner plate balanced neatly on top. You cur!! I yelled inside my head. They're not my dishes. The next day they were still sitting inside the now greasy cold water. And so I approached the opponent, "Say when you get a chance, can you do your dishes?" The response was predictable and scripted. "They're not all mine . . . blah blah blah . . . I don't have time."

And then it happened, I became my Mother's Daughter
and I knew that dishes took no time at all,
and the act of scrapping plates,
and the crashing of the pans,
would echo through the hall,
and that no one could mistake,
as I slammed the lid upon the can
that I was doing dishes,
oh yes , I washing dishes,
that were not mine at all.

And so the opponent sat and cowered,
and glared upon the books,
and teared into the phone,
If you had told me, I intoned,
then I would have understood,
in a voice that was not mine,
but clearly was my mother's
and then I slammed the cupboard door,
and felt much better.