Ironing
The afternoon sunlight filtered through her window drapes
revealing each age line molded to her face
alone in the dusky shadows working in her measured way
a basket of clothes at her feet
one by one she pulled each wrinkled cloth out
and began to iron their folded lines
the sound of steam broke the silence
a can of starch was on the table
its contents sprayed from time to time
her eyes never left her ironing board
she never noticed day had turned to twilight
though the sun was setting outside her window
she hadn't eaten all day
focused on her chosen chore
to do for her children...no matter the length of time
or the pain that burned inside her swollen legs
of varicose veins
she stood sturdy undaunted by her task
quiet, solemn, motion upon motion
so was her gift to those she loved
it was her way
thinking of others before herself
she was my mom
and her gift was unconditional
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