Recently I learned that the word ‘husband’ meant the keeper of a house long before it meant anything to do with marriage. And of course a housewife is wed to the household, if you take the word on face value.

Lately I do a lot of sorting. There are boxes for foil, tins, glass, paper, card, and milk cartons. I collect compost. Orange peel and burst teabags spilling wet rich fragrance over my hands. Wasted food.

I just put on a white wash. Three loads a day, sometimes – muddy grubby shitty clothes, towels, billowing sheets as white as the cold landscape. I like the squareness of sheets, the smell of hot laundry out of the drier. I like how your feet go numb and then burn when the ground is frozen and you walk over it. We’re in flood season, the river rises and the snowline falls. Roads close, bridges wash out. It’s light only for about seven hours – a brief glimmer of day. We submit to the weather. I watch the snow fall.

Six years ago I published my first novel. Then I started writing a lot of short stories. Then flash fiction, a whole slew of 100 word pieces. Recently I rediscovered my long lost love – poetry. I found the depths and miniature grace of haiku.

It seems I’m working slowly towards silence. There’s a blizzard outside. Wrap up warm.

 

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