Her gnarled hands shook as they clipped the clothespin to the corner of the sheet. We worked methodically down the line, her with the sheets and me pinning up tiny squares of washclothes. She sang old hymns as we hung the linens on the line and it smelled of summertime and detergent. Bells rang out and I dropped the clothespins to catch the ice cream truck ambling down the main road in the small, one stop-light town. Two quarters jangled in my pocket as I ran knock-kneed towards promise of a dipped cone. He had slipped them to me earlier, bent down with a quiet whisper of “don’t tell your mother, now” before he trudged off to pick the turnip greens from the back garden for dinner. I was already plotting how to sneak those off my plate.
I hate doing laundry. I married a man who does his own and that should relieve me of some of the burden but I dislike it all the same. The endless washing and drying and folding and the constant stopping and starting as I start one load and trudge another back up the stairs.
I hate doing laundry.
With a drill I attached a hook and stretched a line. She stands on tiptoes and hands me clothespins as I clip the corners of the cloth to the fine rope. I let her practice on the washcloths, lips pursed as tiny hands maneuver the wooden pin and it’s springs. It smells like summertime and detergent and the faint whisper of a memory. Faces of family she will never know except in the stories I tell her as I point to them in the leather album. Mamaw Sybil. Papaw Ernest. I sing Sybil’s song of an old rugged cross as we work, emptying the basket and though I still don’t like the chore I look back at the fabric fluttering on the line and see a legacy.
♥ STOP ♥
Today I am linking up with Five Minute Friday, a writing exercise where you set a timer for five minutes and write on a specific topic until it chimes at you to lift your fingers from the keyboard. Today’s prompt is: LAUNDRY and you can join in here!
