Ironing

The afternoon sunlight filtered through her window drapes revealing each age line molded to her face alone in the dusky shadows working in her measured way a basket of clothes at her feet one by one she pulled each wrinkled cloth out and began to iron their folded lines the sound of steam broke the silence a can of starch was on the table its contents sprayed from time to time her eyes never left her ironing board she never noticed day had turned to twilight though the sun was setting outside her window she hadn't eaten all day focused on her chosen chore to do for her children...no matter the length of time or the pain that burned inside her swollen legs of varicose veins she stood sturdy undaunted by her task quiet, solemn, motion upon motion so was her gift to those she loved it was her way thinking of others before herself she was my mom and her gift was unconditional