PENANCE AND PURIFICATION
My mother hung her laundry like a prayer
Tight bleached white sheets flapping in the sun
shirts hung tail to tail; seams pulled, collars stretched.
On windy afternoons, the clothes pole
(a cross between an inside out umbrella and a television antenna)
would spin and whirl—spin and whirl—possessed.
Sodden monogrammed towels, boxer shorts, tee shirts,
A-line skirts—plaids and madras in a wild tangle.
My mother hung her laundry like a prayer,
like a work of art–
an economy of clothespins, of space, of time…
efficient, streamlined
folded on the spot,
some of it before it was hung.
The rest before it was carried inside for the ironing ritual .
Laundry day depended on the weather.
Depended on the conditions for drying.
Inside every house we ever owned,
in the dark and moldy basement
by the deep stationary sink,
there were at least two or three lines of plastic coated rope
that sagged with the weight of wet wrung or spun clothes.
There was a bag for clothespins
that looked like the front of an apron—two pockets for easy access.
Newer clothespins pinched
with their strong tight springs—
I took them apart and drew faces on them,
made arms with pipe cleaners,
dressed them
and turned them into dolls—
but then I turned everything into a doll.
My mother hung her laundry like a prayer.
Appealing to the God of sunlight and fresh air;
Prostrate before the God of purification,
praying ceaselessly for cleansing;
Communing with the God of order, of harvest, of control,
who, in His infinite wisdom, might save the day.
What a lovely way to pay homage to your mother. Beautiful writing.
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