As a father, who happens to homeschool his five kids, I also have the distinct honour of managing the general household paradigm. Here’s a retelling of an event involving one of those responsibilities.
Chores are not like a small kitten’s purr,
No. Chores are torture.
Run the linen up the flag poles,
Stoke the spinning bucket with garments,
And it’s still hungry.
Such is this monster, which I have,
. daily, gallantly met.
It makes me Don Quixote against
Windmills and giants!
With the same checklist,
. gusto and loyalty,
. as that of D’Artagnan’s servant, Planchet.
Into the chilling wind I stride,
Weighty basket in hand,
Like an explorer in wet clothes, traversing unexplored Antarctic land.
The south winds blow in from hills covered in Australian snow,
My uncovered hands are no match for the cold.
My destination is only ten steps from the back door,
but the wind is like a frozen invisible wall.
My climb against it has become a solitary fight
Like the one faced by an imprisoned, Edmond Dantès
stuck inside a cell with no light.
the minutes drag on, the seconds slow down.
Like the resuscitated Dantès, become Count,
fighting back against all that was unfair;
Where is my Prisoner Priest, like Abbe Faria?
Where is my Island of Cristo,
with its hidden treasure made ready for me to bare?
the wind chill hitting my hands,
it’s a solitary stand.
This, these darkened minutes are testing my resolve,
It’s a saga even Dumas would have, with bravado, retold.
All because I went out into the cold
To hang up on a line, a bunch of wet clothes.