Laundry

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I often find laundry moving,
the sight of pieces of clothing lined on poles
stretching out and away from my kitchen windows.
T-shirts, trousers, towels…
basking in the sun’s abundance of light and warmth.
Sometimes when blankets catch wind, like sails,
I wonder if our house might lift off
and float up, up, up amongst clouds. 

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Today when I brought in laundry
warm and toasty,
removing pastel-coloured pegs from
first my 9-year-old daughter’s tights
then my 69-year-old mother’s pyjama pants
I was again moved by laundry -
articles of clothing that tell of people
who are physically in my life.
My 4-year-old daughter’s extra small t-shirt
with turqoise blue stripes,
next to my 74-year-old father’s extra large t-shirt
in solid grey.
My heart burst open with love and gratitude
and then, just as instantaneously,
collapsed into a heap
like limp laundry on the couch waiting to be folded.
I remembered how much I miss
seeing his laundry amongst ours. 

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It’s not much to want
but how I long to see the girls’ dresses next to
their father’s uniqlo t-shirts
so worn, that they have holes
always somehow only at his mid-section.
Holes, just big enough for little girls’ fingers
to stick into and tickle their father’s tummy.
The same t-shirt in an assortment of colours -
navy blue, olive green and salmon pink
so lived in and soft
that he’d wear them over and over at home
until wearing a t-shirt became too tedious
for a man who could no longer raise his hands above his head. 

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And so laundry moves me,
daily reminders of life being lived
and life lost.
I’d give anything
to see one of those t-shirts next to ours
catching light and wind again.