She can’t see very well anymore.
He’s deaf.
It’s been fifteen years
since she poured her own cup of coffee:
her shaking hands and tired eyes make it hard.
He does it for her,
(two sugars, a bit of cream)
Unable to hear her sing while she makes it.
But her voice isn’t what it used to be.
It’s hard for the sound to travel up
her weakened bent back.
She smiles her thanks to him,
and points to the calendar.
Together, they work as one making the bed
every day.
Together they smooth the sheets,
every day.
Today, though, they leave the bed
rumpled and undone.
Today is October Fourth.
Today is different.
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He carries the comforter
in a plastic basket with a broken handle
they got on sale at WalMart
eight or nine years ago
past their small ten-year-old Maytag
and out to their old car.
He goes back in the house
their children once laughed in,
Feeling his way down the hallway
to get the other basket:
two other blankets.
(They get cold easier now.)
She gets the change jar
(nearly half full-
maybe they’ll stop for a Happy Meal after),
the soap,
and the fabric softener,
(which she rations, but this is a special occasion),
and her glasses,
and they head to the Laundromat
to wash the comforter.
They hunch over the machine together
Counting precious quarters.
$3.00 for the big machine.
They look at each other.
That’s going to eat into the fuel budget.
How do people afford to
wash their comforters?
How do they pay to be rid of the
life and death and love and hate
housed in the bedclothes?
An angel happens by
and helps them:
The comforter will fit in the .75 cent washer.
They sit close as the comforter is
buried in the likeness of death
in the warm baptismal waters,
and as it rises to new life from
the mesmerizing dryer.
They talk in an unknown tongue
of their own invention.
A language built of devotion,
love, irritation, familiarity and memory.
Their language is expressed
in gentle touch, knowing glances,
laughter, furrowed brows,
few words, and comfortable silence.
Time flies, and their comforter is cleansed.
Working as one
they fold the precious piece of fabric
that is growing a bit threadbare in places
and still bears the stains from
when his bandages leaked after
the surgery,
and the time they decided to eat chili in bed,
(So stupid. What were they thinking?)
and the grandchild fell,
and their tears fell like rain.
They set their history
carefully in the basket
with the blankets.
The smell of their home and their age
still lingers,
mingling with the Valu-Time fabric softener.
They gather their other things,
and are stunned when the angel
pushes open the door for them
and helps them load the car.
“Such a sweet girl,”
they both think to themselves.
They eat Happy Meals
purchased with coins
and watch children play,
thinking of their grandchildren.
(So far away.)
They leave the toys behind
and go home to the house they bought in 1965.
$12,895.
He carries the comforter to their room
She follows with the blankets.
They see the bed,
unmade,
And think the same thought.
Climbing in, they hide together
Under the warmth of the comforter
and rest in peace.