Rainy Sundays

It often rained on Sundays, or so it seemed;
and the drizzle on the windows decided
if I could play out or be forced to stay in
by the wet, for when my father slept,
I must be quiet, and I feared to wake him.

If he slept, I’d play alone and daydream,
while my mother laboured at her chores,
loathing the laundry she had to haul
to the laundromat for washing and drying,
before ironing it all into shape.

She'd open the cupboard under the stairs
to rummage inside for her ironing table,
and adjust its cover of post-war thrift,
before dragging it to the dining-room,
like a Pharaoh's sarcophagus freed from its tomb.

Tired of its weight, she’d unfold the legs,
careful not to catch her fingers in the trestle.
She’d lay out a shirt and apply the iron,
and the table would sway and creak at her touch
like a ship in the grip of a swell.

She'd push and press and curse at her work,
flattening the wrinkles baked by the dryer,
I'd listen to the steam hiss and sigh—
or was that the sound of her weeping,
mourning the life that she lived?

As Sunday's light slanted through the windows,
she’d ruffle my hair the way mothers do,
and lift her eyes to look at the garden,
and even one as young as I could see
the shadows that were cast on her heart.

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