<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460636" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>0165 Ironing</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">On the top unlooked-at shelf<br>of the cupboard rarely opened<br>there it was.<br>A tidy, self-effacing, neat and ordered pile<br>of mother's ironing<br>- after how many years? -<br>of those seldom used, worn almost to holes, frayed, <br>white things, for the house and family: <br>their worn yet serviceable hems and stitching<br>ironed with a jeweller's perfection...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and suddenly the living and the dead<br>were intimate and closer than any sought or unsought sentiment, <br>and I was a child again<br>silently watching, <br>taking in without commentary<br>as children do, <br>yet in every fine detail, <br>a mother's love; <br>a love simply watched, observed; <br>not, for a change, demanded<br>or expected<br>as a matter of course: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">the iron nosing with supreme care<br>across the smell of hot and just-wet cotton<br>with a little, smooth, smooth swish, <br>over the warm bed of cloth and blanket, <br>taken from their special drawer; <br>the hand and elbow moving with a dancer's grace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and I knew then, <br>in the nose, the nub, of that just-rightly-heavy iron, <br>the whole love of a woman and her life -<br>repetition and care, duty, love unspoken -<br>all the emotions raised by family<br>who'd never dream of thanking Mum<br>for the ironing...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Where's my special shirt? ....M-u-mm....? '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No wonder that so many women hate<br>this incessant, unthanked act<br>of holy communion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I reflected: <br>every child should have the chance to watch<br>without commenting - as children do -<br>but seeing what they will remember all their life, <br>in every fine detail, <br>some to imitate it and remember; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">some to find it after years, <br>on the shelf unsought<br>within the cupboard seldom opened, <br>(in the rose-garden, beyond time, <br>and time past is time present; and the time is always now...) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">this act, this ritual<br>of purest love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460636" data-title="0165 Ironing de Michael Shepherd" data-description="On the top unlooked-at shelf of the cupboard rarely opened there it was. A tidy, self-effacing, neat and ordered pile of mother's ironing - after how many years? - of those seldom used, worn almost to holes, frayed, white things, for the house an..."></div> </div> </div>

solid border dashed border dotted border double border groove border ridge border inset border outset border no border blue green red purple cyan gold silver black