Michelle LaRosa | A Hazy Memory

Hot cotton,

Smoky and fresh,

Sneaks under my door.

My foot falls away from the warm spot of my sheets.

I let my balmy toes grip the cold wooden boards.

Silk slides across my knees as I squeeze through the crack of the door.

I look across to the little room across the narrow hall.

My nightgown skims the floor.

I creak across the cold cramped space.

The hall is dark, but in the room

The hot pink walls scream bright, even in the morning’s dim light.

I look up at the ironing board,

Feel the steam from the white shirt hit my face,

A soothing breath.

His pants pressed, placed on the chair.

I pick them up, step into them,

My whole body snug in one leg,

Slide under the ironing board,

Sitting in a swirl of steam.

The sleeve dangles next to me.

Wrapped in a warm swathe,

I hear the spray of the water bottle,

And the sizzle of smoothing cotton.

I see the sleeve slide away.

From where I lay I look up at my dad’s legs.

He knelt next to me.

“Honey,”

I hear.

“Back to bed.”

He coaxes me from my cocoon,

Lifts me to his hip.

I press my face against his freshly ironed shirt,

And fall asleep to the smell of

Hot cotton.

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