Getting it Right
Mum’s dishcloths and dusters,
more precious than sheets,
always pressed at the ready
waited in a sideboard drawer.
I never said, I hate them,
as she swabbed and wiped,
always fussing in the kitchen.
Never moaned,
I don’t want to be a slave
to dishcloths, mops and pegging out.
I hadn’t realised that then.
One day when I was newly married
tipping bleach into the sink
a baby’s cry startled me
and I spilled the citreous liquid
all down my Calvin Kleins.
No wipes or other disposables
on hand like today,
only the dishcloth.
I never told her…
I was an instant convert.
A stash of old-fashioned stocking-stitched cloths with blue sewn edging
available from Woolworths (as was), or old Hardware Shops, if you’re lucky,
still rests in a drawer beside my tablecloths.
