in the corner she kept it folded
quiet metal legs waiting to stretch
beside torn rags and cleaning sprays
where years of work rested unseen
she drew it out with care each time
the weight of love balanced in her arms
her hands steady as unyielding roots
the board a stage for wrinkled lives
the iron hissed like a whispered prayer
steam rising to smooth the chaos
my small clothes transformed beneath her hands
lines and creases erased by her tenderness
every school morning began here with her
an act of love pressed into fabric
the smell of heat and crisp perfection lingered
mama zil’s touch stitched into my memory
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 3rd, 2025 14:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
Offline)
Comments1
My mother had the same board as did my wife and those smells and memories are ironed into my memory as well. What a nice poem of nostalgia and pressed feelings of the past long stored.
For me it was an old bread board etched with the carving of many a loaf before the advent of sliced bread.
Nostalgia carved deep in your poem. Thanks.
Dave did those etchings leave wrinkles in your pressed clothes and if not were there bread crumbs on them?
Nah - I just never bothered to take 'em off. Wot else was there for lunch if not the bread crumbs...?
Let's keep this going - might help Gray up the Trending Now ladder to greater exposure.
That's what I like about you Dave a big heart
Glad You approve, Soren.
I do indeed
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