First day of holiday.
Washing day.
I’ve cleaned the cottage and stripped the beds .
The duvets are pristine white and are drying gently on the field gate in the warm breeze we have today
Their presence signals I am home.
Monday’s were always wash days when I was a child.
The house smelled of OMO and hot water and the twin tub churned loudly in the back kitchen .
They were busy days
My grandmother was always there
Big arms bare to the elbow and her face perspiring, she would squeeze the clothes and sheets through the mangle before filling the washing lines with laundry, wooden pegs in her mouth.
Lunch was hurried leftovers from Sunday dinner.
Dark gravy to soften the dry meat.
The ironing came later.
Ironing the whites with stories a plenty to entertain us with.
I used to love wash days just because of her.
I ironed the duvet today , which was a first .
I was shamed into by a gay friend who thought I was an animal for never doing so before.
I remembered my grandmother as I did so.
Wriggling the tip of the iron in the corners, like she did.
I never think of her for the longest of times now, then bam! a memory will surface like a whale breaching a calm sea and suddenly you are surrounded with thoughts and memories and smells and feelings from fifty years ago.
I miss her still
On wash days
from Going Gently https://ift.tt/3DOGy1k
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