The Pose She Struck

After we ate the grilled sausages, chicken-feta and black-pepper-pork, we congregated in the kitchen, rinsing the dishes and watching the dog watching us hopefully.

Trudy went into the laundry room. Ben turned on the water in the sink. I stood between them, looking first one way and then the other. I must have been talking to Ben, because I remember turning away from him to look at Trudy. I don't know what he was saying, but I do remember what I saw when I turned away.

There in the laundry room, in that tiny space between the kitchen and garage, Trudy was starting the laundry.

Now before we go any further, you must know that Trudy finds this activity (doing laundry) immensely gratifying in some way that I cannot comprehend. It is an activity, which gives her great happiness and without which her days grow long and her face grim. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I am, because it helps to explain, I think, what I saw next.

She stood there in the laundry room with her left leg straight and her right turned at a slight angle. She stood in what seemed a dancer's pose. Her feet were pointed. Her left arm was extended to the dial on the dryer. She held her right arm back with fingers gracefully pointed, as if to balance the work her left was doing. Her head was held high. And a wide smile was on her face.

Then she saw me looking at her. And she saw me smiling. And she heard me telling Ben to look. And she looked at herself, at her legs, at her still-extended arms.

And she laughed. And I laughed. And Ben looked confused as he returned to loading the dishes into the dishwasher.

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