The spinning drum of the washing machine has replaced the revolving washing line. Nine months ago it would have been art.
But there was no intention on my part, no creative direction. That’s just where it landed. “A happy accident.”
Where fabrics once wafted under a blanket of blue, straggly beans now double up in pain against the biting black winds.
My mother would have been proud. She was the mistress of make-do.
Rock-filled socks hang from a branch. My ‘apple art’. My shrine to nature. My nod to customs past. My homemade pulverisers.
A watery hole has become a firey pit. One vital element replaces another. The fish are fried. Mother would have been proud.
I pluck the final morsel from my jewellery case. I select with care, as if I had a choice. I stab at the flames. The sticky meat crackles and hisses in pointless protest.
It had pulled from a chest. Her chest. It’s her second gift of life. A parting present.
She’d have approved of this inside out, upcycled world. At last, I’ve done her proud.