Obsolete

With a homemade glass sprinkling bottle, Mama dampened pants,
shirts, and dresses, placed them in a pillowcase to keep them moist.
Imitating her, I would stand in front of the high board, move
the shiny iron back and forth, up and down, until the cloth was pressed.

Daddy’s handkerchiefs became my job, my goal, to fix each one,
make it look like new, ready to be used, make sure he was pleased.
The black-and-white striped cord hung down, dangled near one foot.
I was careful not to trip and fall.

I graduated to doilies, then larger pieces. One day the hot appliance
pointed too far, left a blister on my left arm, a rite of passage.
After I married, ironing became a chore. One time I finished
twenty-three shirts, starched and hanging in the closet,

my lower back and legs hurting, my body totally exhausted.
Years have passed since I first ironed. Since then, I have learned
men and irons claim kinship. I don’t need either one.

**

Winter Washing

In days of galvanized tubs, when clothes froze,
the chug-chug-chug of the wringer washer
and the smell of bleach
announced that laundry day had come again.
Mama’s raw, bleeding hands hung overalls
with worn wooden clothespins.
When I was old enough, we worked together,
rinsing in tubs of cold, clear water.
We carried each load to the lines
that Daddy had strung between poles,
wore slacks, socks, woolen scarves and coats.
Sheets hung parallel, shielding us briefly
from the whipping wind. As long as the rain
held off, the laundry would eventually dry.
It was an all-day event, this sanctifying of garments,
this removal of the dirty and restoration of the clean.