Clorox and the thrub, thrub, thrubbing of the old wringer washer
Grape jelly on toast, crumbs caught on an old cookie tray
You washing sheets with a big stick before hanging them out to dry.
Ben gay smeared on a furrowed brow, tied up in a cotton scarf
You taught me life in a class I couldn’t play hooky from
Trudging forward, determined, focused, never straying
Hanging sheets one after the other and forcing the lines up with poles to hold them.
Guilty of the jelly joys smeared over my face, flinging crumbs with carefree zest
Bittersweet pleasure watering my eyes, but never questioning your wisdom
I swept up the remains of my sins with a broom twice as tall as I was.
Memories burned into my nose from fumes that produced pristine white sheets.
Your words were gospel. Your actions more sacred even than that.
Adoring you, sopping up jelly and soap, sweeping up crumbs, holding clothespins
Pressing my nose into its soft surface as you put on your face and left for work.
I wished I was a sheet, pressed close to your chest, left warm in the sun.
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