Reflective

Angry words flew between my love and I,
propelled me away from our shared space,
stomping my way to our kitchen,
red fury in my eyes
and black thoughts in my head
as my hands filled the sink
with stacked dirty dishes
and boiling hot water.

I squirted dish soap
into the flowing water
with one vicious squeeze
and a string of minuscule bubbles
shot out around my face and shoulders,
startling my mind away
from thoughts of what I would wear to his funeral one day,
grudgingly barking a short laugh at myself.

Transfixed, my eyes tracked
each bubble,
reflected colors streaking their surfaces,
and tiny kitchen snapshots
with tiny me in their center
watching each implode, disappear,
with a near inaudible
pop,
pop,
pop,
but for one holdout
caught on the towel roll
in front of my eyes.

There it stayed
for an eternity,
longer than any bubble
had a right to remain,
and I told myself
to move,
convinced I could not
until it popped,
and waited,
unmoving,
waited,
stilled,
waited.

Pop.