“It Was the Laundry that Saved Me”
From the pen and perspective of Donna Davis:
Think of it, the dirt cellar with crawl-space
caves beneath the stairs, stuff of bad dreams,
shovels stored there, menacingly poking out
from pockets of fear. The hanging light,
a forked tongue of bulb, swung formlessly,
a life expending itself.
Think of the small child standing there
at the edge of the last step like a bather
awaiting the cold shock of a wave,
desperately afraid of drowning.
But it was the laundry that saved me;
the huge, warm enamel tub in that glacial room
singing deep bass tones of sheets and shirts
slapping against its sides.
And my mother was there
with my sister amid scattered clothes,
explaining the careful process: the separation
of fabrics, the two iron rinse tubs waiting
beyond the first wringer, the clothes pulled through
just the right way over the wooden rollers.
I would watch the foamy suds turned smooth
as cream, rushing down the cellar drain.
I would smell the sweet religion of clean
threads, pure as altar cloths wrung and draped
over the makeshift lines.
Years later, when my mother died, and darkness
threatened, the waters lapped against my ankles.
I walked through sorrow to that place of sound
safe and eternal, to rest my hand
upon its beating, motoric heart.
And we were together once more, like the wise
women of ages past, our white robes drying
on river rocks. With steady exhalation of breath,
we did the work of the soul.
