As I dried the dishes with my mother
you told me to separate
knives, forks and spoons
and to put them in the drawer
with their handles facing toward me.

How I resented this, at fourteen
seething with inner rage at
the place you held in my mother’s heart,
refusing to accept your authority,
yet obeying your instructions.

Thirty years on you are not here
to see as I put the cutlery away all
mixed up, not here each time
I return to rearrange it all
with the handles facing toward me.