When I fold them,
I see you
my devoted launderer,
how you washed and dried
and folded
for decades
in our small attic laundry,
where the ceiling slopes down to the eaves
and where folding a sheet
required dedication
and practice.
Practice I never had in our decades together
because you took the task of washing
clothes we wore out into the world,
and bed sheets, our second home.
The room still tilts.
Even though your folding is done,
you are still here in the creases and seams
of the house,
in the clean and shining fabric
I pull from the wash.
I fold and straighten
in our slanted room.
My corners are often amiss
and out of kilter.
