Homemaking

Joyful things are sweet and small today. Filling wide-mouthed jars with coffee brewed double-strength; the grounds slopped into the compost and joined by lemon rinds and the heads of strawberries, their leaves like bad haircuts. I boiled water for tea, mint whose saw-toothed leaves left a scent on my fingers more lasting than any cut. When the tea had steeped and cooled I washed my hair and poured it on my head, balanced over the sink, watching the beads of water drip-drop from curls as loose and slim as cursive handwriting.

Capturing my cat in photographs of a clean house, folding his hairs already into freshly laundered towels and t-shirts and socks bundled mate to mate. They’re easier to find this way, one wrapped snug in the other, paired.

The rumble of uneven wheels on pavement when M and I take the recycling and the garbage out, when we linger in twilight and track the progress of a single lightning bug between our yard and the neighbors’. We could see one star, too, like a chip of quartz in field stone, but it wasn’t a wishing star. Just then I hadn’t anything to wish for.

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6 thoughts on “Homemaking

  1. The Storialist

    The ending of this is my favorite, the rumble of the recycling and garbage can–I know EXACTLY how that sounds. To be in love with routine–that is a smart choice.

    Reply
  2. pennyjars

    I was also drawn to the sound of the garbage can, and remembered parts of winter night with a sharp-edged moon cutting through the sky. Lovely moments. Thank you šŸ™‚

    Reply

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