The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. (The Go-Between)
THE SEASONS OF ENVY
When my kids were little another young mother ironed sheets, handkerchiefs, boxer shorts, and the white T-shirts her husband wore to repair other folks’ plumbing. A super-heroine mom. I don’t recall her name. We belonged to the same circle, but I rarely spoke to her. I thought we were too different. Her kids appeared photo-shoot ready, even in the sandbox. Before noon my kids’ shirts needed pre-soak. My boys called dress-up clothes corpse attire, and a shirt buttoned to the neck, a noose. Hours bonding with an iron didn’t suit my lifestyle. Yet, I wondered how super-mom managed. I honored her the way some people venerate saints, the ones who accept martyrdom over burning coals as if it were sunburn. I meditate as I iron. Her explanation. Life’s wrinkles transformed. Mine remained. I recall those days as I change bed sheets on an ordinary Thursday afternoon. I notice holes in fabric that has lasted through bleach, hot water, myriad spins, more than one washer and dryer. I consider the decades, the blood clot in my lung, my parents’ funerals, and nights when I couldn’t sleep. I rub my hand over creases and feel the texture of old cotton, as if I could gather the years, hold and thank them for loss and imperfections that have added character to my imperfections.
terrypetersen 