I remember the massive washing
pot sizzling on the stove, steaming
soap and shiny bubbles, the dolly,
the washboard in the sink. Barely
room for two in her tiny scullery,
I gripped her apron tightly,
behind the comfortable safety
of her body, away from the flames
flickering from washday spits.
Afterwards, on the carmine step,
I turned the wringer handle
while she fed each item through the rollers until
it dropped into the basin below –
how it never trapped her reddened fingers
I will never know.
Kim M. Russell, 20th September 2019
This weekend Sherry is taking us back to our Grandmas’ kitchens. She asks if they were safe places and whether there were items that stand out for us when we remember being there. She wants us to tell her about it, any form, any length.