Washing Like Lady Macbeth, guilt ridden, my mother washed. She scrubbed floors, counters, the bathroom. Then she started on the curtains, workpants, sheets, towels, blankets from the dog bed. Clothes. If we stood still long enough, she’d make us take off what we were wearing so she could wash it. She spent hours  in the cellar running clothes through the wringer, in winter hanging them on the lines down there. In summer she lugged it all outside. She washed. If she ran out she started over. It never eased her never made her clean. But we stood up, sparkling. Cher Holt-Fortin Cher Holt-Fortin (mauvecoyote@yahoo.com) is a san dan in aikido and a fierce quilter.