Yes, they all agree.
It's time to go.
Relatives and friends
trickle away
leaving her
to close the door.

Washing up their plates,
she listens to the sounds
of silverware
clinking softly under the suds.

Her eyes cold and hard
as the knife she holds.
Staring at a dripping distortion
of herself,
the face on the blade
is unrecognizable.

Stabbing the knife into suds
that close behind the blade
in a slow thin flow,
no visible trail is left
to show the water's wound.

Her tears drip through
unnoticed
in the changing color
of the dishwater.

Relatives and friends
stream in
to stand by her,
a torrent
of sympathetic chatter,

Red roses,
her favorite,
so lovely
standing tall
together.

Yes, they all agree.

That was clear
as dishwater.