the first washing machine I remember
made her hands red and wrinkled
as she twisted the hot sheets
wrung out the water through the mangle
the steam rising up off the sheets, into her face
her hair hung limp
hiding her eyes as I stood in the doorway
and watched; wished sometimes
to be strong enough to help
and other times to escape outside –
that dilemma resides within
still all these years later.
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