Laundry

This is my friend S and her husband.

When I saw this picture I told S she should give up the jewelry business and get an agent. Gorgeous couple. More importantly, though, is the fact that these two people are wonderful, loving, hard-working, beautiful on the inside, G-d loving people.

S, her husband and their four darling little blue-eyed blond stair-step children used to live right down the street from us.

But a year and a half ago they moved.

And I miss them terribly.

So the other morning as I lie awake at 6:00 a.m. I wrote a poem for these dear people. Generally speaking, poetry writing is not my gig (you’ll see why in a bit) but I couldn’t sleep and I was thinking about how much I miss living down the street from them . . . about how much I miss being able to meet S halfway down the block to hand off groceries, kids or whatever the other one of us was in need of and borrowing . . . about how much I miss their kids sitting at my kitchen counter eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with my kids . . . and about how much laundry is generated at S’s house.

S gave birth every two years (or sooner) for six years. One of the side effects of living in a house with six people, four of whom are under five feet tall, is having insane amounts of laundry and no kids old enough to really be responsible for it. (If I recall correctly the giant jacuzzi bathtub in the house in which they lived when they were here was perpetually full of laundry – sometimes clean, sometimes not.)

S – I love you. I miss you . . . and if we ever live close to each other again I’ll come over and help fold laundry.

In the meantime, this is for you and yours.

Laundry
Laundry, laundry everywhere
Laundry, laundry in my hair

Piled on the couch
Piled on the chairs
Piled on the table and the basement stairs
 
I sort and wash and dry and fold
but the laundry never stops
It’s a sight to behold
 
In my dreams, when I’m tucked in bed
I see laundry piled over my head
It spills to the kitchen and out the front door
Somewhere under it is my basement floor 
 
But when I sort and wash and dry
It’s little pink socks and stripey jams
Sunday school dresses and a little girls tam
Swimming trunks and an Underoo
A boy’s blue hoodie and laces for a shoe
Everywhere I look I see
Tiny little clothes surrounding me
 
One day soon it’ll all be gone
Part of my past for which I’ll long
It’s one of those things that doesn’t last
It’ll go quickly, much to fast
And I’ll be left with a house so neat
No clothes to trip up anyone’s feet
 
Because one day my kids will be grown
Up and out
All on their own
 
So in these days of laundry galore
I’ll keep going
I’ll treasure this chore
 
Because it means, for me, you see
my kids are close . . .
 
Right here with me.
 
xoxo,
Dianne
Advertisements