Laundering Memories

Laundering Memories

I remember lying in my bed next to the window.
I loved the view, a porthole into the wide world of possibilities,
childhood wonder.

I had a view of the cold night sky,
shifting cloud shapes and sometimes
the shimmering full moon, eclipsing the gasometer.
Raised to its full height and casting shadows on the factories.
Brook’s chimney hidden behind, close to the Frome.
Resting, industry silently waiting for the first sounds of city morning.
Sharp winter images in the frame, natures lurex, winter sparkle.

I didn’t see what wasn’t there, just marvelled at what was.
Tucked in by my dad, secured by blankets and sheets
that blew on the line yesterday, brought inside ice cold,
and aired on the clothes horse next to the coal fire.
The last breath of steam leaving them dry as a bone.

The good night ritual runs its course…
“Night, night, mind the bed bugs don’t bite!”
“Night, night.’’
Hearing his voice disappearing down the “Wooden Hill.”

Hugging my hot water bottle under the bedding layers,
coats on top to keep jack frost from getting in.
Only my face exposed to the ice-cold chill of the room.
Visible breath lingering for a moment. Air freezing to the pane.
Sash windows tucked up with cardboard to stop a draft but still
allowing the ice inside.

Many times, I ventured out an arm, to scratch on the textured glass canvas with a fingernail. Shapes and symbols, smiley faces and words added to nature’s stunning artwork.
I was here.

I didn’t feel what wasn’t there. I embraced what was.

Morning arouses the city sounds.
Early trains roll by on the embankment behind the house, rocking the back windows as they amble towards the thirteen arches and into Stapleton Road.

The milkman tinkles up the road in percussion with the melodic bird song hanging on the breeze, like a soft warming orchestra pit before the sirens blow and the whole cacophony of production launches to life.

I didn’t hear what wasn’t there, just soaked in the vibrations.

We had one tap in the kitchen, water boiled on the gas stove for washing clothes or us. Toilet in the yard, Tin bath hanging on the wall in the yard waiting for Fridays. An old mangle standing next to it waiting for Mondays.

Oh, the glee of water! Shapeshifting around us and through us.
An ebb and flow of the domestic every day.
Splashing and playing watching water squeezed from fabrics into a bowl underneath.
Running and hiding in the billowing sheets, sharing pegs.

We didn’t touch what wasn’t there, just felt the flow of life.

Simple joys cleansed the harsh edges away.
Laundering the memories for later.
In a moment it will be gone.

Pauline