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Pastimes : A Camphouse cupboard - My Notes to me -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Bill on the Hill who wrote (106)	9/14/2000 2:07:41 AM
From: Bill on the Hill	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 155

Momma stood in the light. Ironing dads shirts. Frank Sinatra sang songs to her over the bakelite radio on the shelf in the kitchen. I laid on the floor in the sun letting the morning chill cook off my white t-shirt fruit of the loom pajamas. It was real warm in the morning sun on the oak floor. Momma hummed to the song. She would whirl and turn to the words. Like a conductor of a symphony she was orchestrating she grabbed the handle of the steaming hot iron and would wisk it across dads khaki work shirts. Even the iron was in time to the melody Frank was singing. The ironing board made of ash and poplar with cotton covering creaked and moaned singing out its own rythym and song that matched the orchestra that momma and Frank created. Momma danced to the rythym she felt. Her skirt was full and went to her mid calf. The bottom of mommas legs were five feet away. Her feet were covered with light slip ons made of cotton with rubber soles. They were tan and very clean. Everything about momma was clean. Her floors were clean. Her walls were clean. Her kitchen was clean but busy. Momma's hair was clean and long and blonde and the light lit it up like it had crystals woven into it. Momma smiled when she danced. She made every move seem like she studied before she moved. The way she placed an ironed khaki shirt onto a wire hanger showed she loved my dad. The way she sang made me know she loved Frank. The way she cared for me made me know she loved me. Sometimes I just want one more minute in the sun. Watching my momma iron.