Laundry Day

When I was growing up, life was predictable. I knew, for example, that if it was Monday, Ma would be doing the wash. Tuesday, she’d mend; Wednesday, iron, and so on. Meals, too, were predictable. Every Sunday we had pot roast; every Friday, Ma’s pizza. In regular order, we all knew we would be awakened by the smell of coffee brewing and toast popping up in the toaster.  When we came home for lunch, we knew it would be ready and waiting for us. That predictability was comforting. It was reliable. It implied that things would never change. The poem that follows is an homage to those memories.

Everyone knows that

On Mondays, all the mothers

Will be busy doing the wash.

If it’s summertime, we kids will

Press our noses

Against the white sheets, and

Breathe in the fresh scent.

We’ll unpin the shirts and socks and unmentionables

And pile them into the laundry basket,

A chore we enjoy doing,

Even though we have to stop playing

And wash our hands with soap first.

When it’s windy, the clothes snap and flap

And dance on the clothes lines.

Up and down the block

All the back yards have the same

Look.  Rope lines and poles and baskets and pins

In every one.

When I grow up

And live on this street,

On Mondays,

I will do the wash.



8 thoughts on “Laundry Day

  1. What memories you have conjured up in me! To smell sheets on a laundry line is to smell the sunshine in summer – I can smell it now. I also grew up with rope lines, poles, and baskets of pins. Thanks for taking me back to my ten-year-old self.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I am always in awe of the memories you share via your writing. It allows me to reminisce back to my childhood, which was very predictable too. Then I think about now and how I crave those simple predictable times.

    Liked by 1 person

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