laundry

photograph by k. allrich - all rights reserved

Steve is ironing. Packing for his trip to Nashville. He is meeting with his producer and director- to scout locations for the next film project. His second script is getting a life.

I am not ironing.

My shirts drape over the chair. They're not going anywhere. So why bother?

I sip green tea instead and shut the window against a sudden gust of wind. I have spent no time alone here, really. These five days by myself will be odd. And breathtakingly still. I think about our Santa Fe realtor's advice to get a dog and a gun.

This is the Wild West! he admonished me, as his long arm reached into the dairy case at Bode's General Store and pulled out a bottled Starbuck's Frappucino.

I have not heeded his advice. Did Georgia O'Keeffe keep a gun in the house? I want to ask him, but I don't. She had at least one dog- I think. I know she had a cook. And a caretaker who used to help her grow tomatoes and green chiles.

I need a cook, I tell Steve. Or a wife. Someone to shop and pay the bills. Keep track of paperwork. I sneak a look at him sideways. He looks up from his ironing.

Leave the laundry. Leave the dishes. Go do your thing, he says.

I know. But I always think, I'll just throw this load of laundry in first. I'll wash the coffee cups. Make the bed. Order my world. Then. I'll write.

Your poems are scary good, he tells me.

More impressive than your ironing.


Karina Allrich © 2007-2009