Washing Up
Table-seated, I watch my mother
Slosh suds in the sink, commanding water
To weigh down sodden cloth, scrubbing. Her hands make meandering work of pots and pans Nearly six decades’ worth. Time shifts a step. A sudden punch of sunlight Gleams through glass. My mother lifts tight fist To rub away the shock of it, startling. Bubbles cling like little ghosts to her wrists Slap-splash, cloth thuds wetly into the sink.
Struck in symmetry with her own mother A stark echo of that crooked gesture I remember, The one she made instead of running Because that’s just how men were then. And there were always pots to wash then, too.
The blunt line of my mother’s forearm descends Her eyes slitted, mouth slant now as scrubbing recommences To see what she began through to ending. Doesn’t care to look around her as she works Knows the exact distance these walls form around her.
Seated, the slowly-sinking light snags against Me and catches ink-flecked hands untensed, Unburdened by any of this, only remembering. This strength-forged path of life’s uncertain strand-- I’ll do my best to work hard with my own hands.
Sash Steele is a queer writer and illustrator who has recently started using poetry as a means to explore their complicated family history.They also work for the indie RPG label SoulMuppet Publishing, which combines a love of the fantasy genre, roleplaying games and improv. You can keep up to date with all of Sash's projects on Twitter @heyysash and Instagram @sp1ritjam.
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