Washcloths in the most difficult of circumstances are like fluffs to blank out pain, hold in their folds, warmth, or cold, to be pressed on pulsing and feverish foreheads, the ear and its tin, tin pound of inner torment, hammer’s on metal roofs, the burning, stretching perineum at crowning is coxswained from tearing by way of compresses, steaming hot, oiled washcloths.
And what about those times you have been lucky enough to be offered by a someone, standing with you, barefoot on the cold black tiles, you on your knees retching, hugging the same bowl on normal days you wouldn’t pat without gloves, in hair-strung heaves of splashing reds, pinks and then yellows, your mouth shooting acetone from some tough place inside. There are no words, just a pulling back of the cold-sweated, in danger of acidic dips, curls, and a clean, white washcloth offered to wipe your drooling lips and shaking chin.
Washcloths work double duty, meaning when you decide to paint the stairs and grab for one to wipe the accidental white drips, they do a better job than paper towels which curl and spiral the wiped-up in new, marbled patterns you notice only after they’ve dried.
The same with the ruinous residue of extra chaulking that speed-worms its way out even after you stop pulling the trigger while working the ceiling perimeter. Yes, you are kind of mad the kid grabbed one of the best ones, but you’re up on the ladder and need it now! Not a time to worry about preserving the terry when the real crime would be leaving the mess—a dozen or so silicone worms wiped on your pants and falling into the Christmas cactus, drying in greasy filmed smears to the molding.
Never a sin to be like Mary’s fleece, wiping away tears and nard with the mop of her soft, brown hair.
Photo Credit: Creative Commons/http://www.ldsliving.com/Jesus-Women-4-Powerful-Moments-from-the-New-Testament/s/78224
