blue collar, warm heart

there are some chores i hate. chiefly, scrubbing bathrooms. but there are some that for whatever reason, be it the repetitive motion or the solitude and reflection they provide, are not too bad. i feel this way about dishes and laundry. when warm water is running between my fingers and the hundredth plastic cup fills the drying rack, there are no stresses. for ten minutes, there are no worries, and no tasks that need to be accomplished sans these dishes. and i love it.

last night was laundry night. with robert and pablo watching television in the dark living room, i snuck out to the mud room. the unheated one with brick interior walls. with the three big windows and screen door leading out to the  blueberry bush. and i filled the machine with robert's plumbing clothes. cornflower blue work shirt and navy work pants. with a logo sewn on by his grandmother. they are dirty, yes. but they are my husband's.

one day, he might work in an office. and he'll re-wear the same variation of a suit and tie every day, and the laundry basket will be exponentially lighter. he'll dab on the gray flannel and tuck the handkerchief.

but for now, i'll buy the extra strength detergent and check his pockets every evening. and i'll breathe in deep the smell of pipes. the scent cemented in my memory along with mama's clove cookies and pablo's soft, downy fur. and i'll complain about the loads of wash sitting in the basin, but really cherish that time. in the little cottage by the woods, where work is shed at the threshold, and real life, real love begins after five.