Waking in the afternoon long ago,

To the sound of my mother weeping.

Counterpoint to the swell of the soap opera speaking,

Then, a hiss, and the sharp burning smell of iron on cotton.

 

Sheets, pants, skirts, and finally, shirts.

Stacks of cloth on the sofa, waiting.

All the laundry finally bleached, folded, ironed.

I learned on my father’s handkerchief, a clean one daily.


 

This summer afternoon, in my home, alone,

My dead friend has left me weeping

Keeping the cycle of washing, folding, and ironing,

Back aching, I took more from my closet hangers.

 

The long day, I ironed the unironed and the ironed.

Running the steaming, hissing point into each dart and crease.

Finally, my wardrobe hung, ready for distributing

After I leave, as we all eventually will.

Submitted by nancy on