My mother's hands

It promised to be the spring day that I had long been wishing for. My arms lifted the first towel into the air and  pinned it to the clothes line. I burst into tears.

I was struck with the image of my mother as a young woman, hanging sheets on the line at our Wynwood Road house. I was little and would have been found playing on the swing set or in my hide-away under the arching branches of the forsythia row at the edge of our property - reading one of my coveted Big Little books. I would watch her as she went about her task. This woman who grew up with orange crates as her bedroom furniture derived so much joy from her home and all of the daily tasks that kept it running. She especially loved the smell of sheets dried on the clothes line. After a hard day at play, my brother and I were guaranteed a night of sweet dreams as she pulled up those sheets smelling of fresh air and sunshine and tucked us in.

To this day I'm sure there is nothing better.

So when my arms rose in the air to pin that first towel onto the clothesline, I burst into tears. I cried through the hanging up of two loads of laundry as I remembered my mother's hands at work. 

Enjoy each moment,

Liz