Five Minute Friday – Laundry

It’s Friday and I’m joining hundreds of other writers who link up with Lisa-Jo Baker every week to write brave for Five Minute Friday.  No obsessing with perfection, no backtracking, no editing.  It is a Some Kind of Wonderful community and I so blessed to part of it.  And the number one rule, the only one that’s really absolute – you must leave some comment love on the blog of the person who linked up before you. 



She sighs as she heaves the laundry up on her hip for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.  With a practiced ease she balanced the basket between her and the wall as her hand reached for the back door.  The cold from the fall air bit her cheeks and she squinted at the bright blue sky and the sun that rose over the back yard.

She really hoped it would be warm enough for the laundry to dry.  With two kids that made HUGE messes and no working dryer and winter fast approaching days like this were few and far between.  Days when the  sun would be just enough warmth to dry the clothes.  She was grateful this day.  Two days before she had  hung the laundry “Little House on the Prairie” style on ropes her husband had put up in the play room.  A criss-crossed webbed solution that frustrated her more than anything.

And as she reached into the bucket of clothes pins, her fingers already red from the biting wind she wondered if it would always be like this.  Would they always be attempting to eke normal out of nothing? Would it always come down to the last few pennies in the bank account or asking the cashier to remove this item or that item because your wallet mocked you with “not enough?”

Bend over the basket, pinch the wooden peg, fasten it to the corner, push the line farther out in the yard. Bend over the basket, pinch the wooden peg, fasten it to the corner… repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

And with the steady motion, and the squeak of the pulley, she found a rhythm that began to ease the anxiety.  She felt the fist of tension ease from around her heart.  The last was hung and she stepped back, empty laundry basket in hand to survey her work.  Clothes, freshly washed snapped and whipped in the cold biting wind.  As each trouser leg, each tiny shirt and minuscule sock caught the breeze she recalled the moment when each became dirty.

The kids clamouring to help make cookies, the finger painting that just had to happen.  The great wide grins when she produced and ice cream cone for dessert.  The happy squeals as tractors and trucks and shovels and pails created lands that are worthy only of the imagination.

She may not have much.  She certainly did not have a dryer.  But what she had filled her heart to the brim.  She had the mess of life, the blissful ordinary messes of life that produced the sweetest laundry.


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