Of the small and sundry

There is a strange pleasure in the repetition of manual tasks.

In the slicing of an apple for instance.

The knife poised expectantly above the freshly washed skin. Leaping, almost, out of my hand in an eagerness to slice through the firm red fruit.

Thick creamy slices edged in deep maroon.

Or in the crispness of a freshly ironed collar.

I lose myself in the heaviness of the iron filled with linen water. Erasing wrinkles and crumpled lines on the cotton blend fabric with every movement.

A warm cloud of steam rises from the board mingled with the smell of cotton and detergent.

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