There she sat on that ancient chair, my mother
As she sorted the contents of the laundry basket.
Piece by piece she brought to her lap
Smoothing the crevices and the creases
With her warm, plum hands.
Smoothing and patting down the wrinkles of a shirt
Of under pants…
Of children’s wear…
Of towels and handkerchiefs
Until smooth and soft.
She then folded them once, twice, thrice
And along with those folds went the dark memories
Until depleted into the crevices of oblivion.
With each fold heartache was hidden in the soft…
Warm comfort.
No more tears, no more pain…
No more nothing that relates to…
Ache.
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