Forgotten Chores.

I opened the dishwasher to find it in a state slightly different from the way I'd left it. I'd left it empty - a wiry cavern, hollow and dejected while the sink sat bulging and creaking under the weight of the dishes. If it could feel pain, the appliance would have wept. My empty dishwasher....a portrait of neglect.
When I opened it this time, a few dishes and utensils sat nestled in the stakes jutting up from the wire frame. A spoon, a wire whisk, a Tupperware dish, a plate. These dishes, though their position in the dishwasher meant less work for me, were an omen. I pictured the manner in which they had come to be where I should have put them. I envisioned my mother, huffing and growling under her breath as she threw them in, beginning to pick up the chore I was supposed to complete. With each item she transferred, her forehead became more creased and my punishment became more severe. I shook my head, trying to throw out the image like water that escapes a bucket that's sloshed around enough.
Perhaps she began loading the dishwasher to give the illusion that she as trying to help, while still leaving enough empty space to further prove her point. Her point, however, could not have been stated more clearly.
The vast majority of the dirty dishes were now stacked and piled precariously on my bed.