on the last step
and peeking around
the corner
to watch
my mother ironing.
the bare
bulb
of the laundry room
shining white
upon her.
the basket at her feet
full of rumpled clothes.
how quiet she was holding
that hot weight
in her hand,
the steam,
the starch.
one shirt after another.
pants
and dresses.
onto hangars they would go,
others folded neatly
upon the washer.
it was a meditation of sorts.
no sound
no kids,
no radio.
just the quiet hiss of the iron
as her hand
pulled it along.
1 comment:
Nice
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