Analysis of Content in Being Alone

I hate doing the dishes.
They clatter too loud against each other
and leave residue on my fingers
because our dishwasher only works
about half the time.

Lately, I’ve tried to make it better.
I pretend there’s sunlight on my cheeks
from an open window
and that the kitchen is painted
my favorite color.

I imagine the tiles are something I’ve chosen
and that the rugs are my own.
I think of the plants that will line the shelves
and the mornings I’ll spend there
content in being alone.

It isn’t much,
and the kitchen is my mother’s
when I open my eyes.
But I can breathe a little easier
and the days don’t quite blur together.