‘Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry’. Richard Wilbur
The before and after of laundry. The way it starts off soiled and can shift.
It can stink, filthy, battleship grey, red rust blood spots, the stains of spilled food,
The dribbles of a baby, the toothpaste smudge of an overused towel.
Oh, let here be nothing on earth but laundry.
The agitation in the cylinder making peace with soap suds,
The soft water by osmosis gripping each fibre, taking away the load of life’s grime.
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry.
The final rinse, a Baptism.
The water as clear and crystal as a stream. All dirt washed away.
The load heaved from the machine ready for its journey to the clothesline.
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry.
Flapping in the wind, sails on a yacht, flap and sway and through the turbulence of this storm come new beginnings.
The smell of a newborn baby’s head. The smell of a new day. The earth on a hot day after rain. Its petrichor.
Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry.
Let us rejoice in the universal labour that comes from our efforts, not only as women, not only as children, not only as men and boys, but all of us, take up our load of soiled laundry like Lazarus rising.
The Saturday night bed with fresh sheets and pillow slips, the cleanest sleep of the week.
The luxury of life in readiness for death. And when we die, may our tired worn bodies be wrapped in the white shroud of a life lived well and carried by our loved ones to some place quiet where fibres, tooth, hair and bones, can sink, turning back into laundry.
Back in the day…