Forecast : laundry day

No, that's not a metaphor for washing my troubles away

Though I wish it were that easy. 

Instead I'm washing clothes. Or truthfully, watching my mother do it. 

Like she did with her mother 

And her mother before her

Don't be mistaken, there's no poetry to it

It's grueling work. 

Bruised knuckles, aching back

Under the unforgiving sun. 

Lugging baskets of clothes to hang on the washing line. 

Still, as I watch the fluid movement of her hands.. 

The occasional flick of the wrist. 

I think, what a gift. 

There are no cameras to capture her technique, no ceremony or flowers.

I seldom hear the words I love you in my home

But every week at the foot of my bed

Lies a perfectly folded stack of clothes. 

And I think of my mom, resting her feet

after a day's work done. 

I whisper to myself, Close enough.