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September 14 Sunday

Mom has been crying in her room all night. Dad just sits patiently on the bed rubbing her back, but he doesn�t get it and she won�t tell him.

He doesn�t get her obsession to clean the bathroom for four, five, six hours a day when he�s gone. He doesn�t feel her dry, cracked and bleeding hands that she tries to hide. He doesn�t see the spacey look that shows up in her eyes when she�s not done cleaning by the time we arrive home from school. And he definitely doesn�t know how it�s driving this family apart, how Jeremy won�t leave his room, how I have to stop by the grocery store almost everyday after school for more bleach and how mom is just a shell of her former vibrant self.

As they say, �He�s a good boy, but he ain�t too bright.�

I want to run into that bedroom, curl up in his lap and have him rub my back. Tell me that I don�t have to be the adult anymore. Tell me he�ll stay home for good this time. Tell me everything will be all right.

I iron instead and my clothes understand. They know the importance of the extra sharp creases. They acknowledge my need to burn them. They forgive my incessant strokes. They calm my frazzled nerves.

The iron replaces mother; the board replaces father; and the clothes replace friends.



Dirty - Clean

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