fresh laundry, open windows

we giggle, sit down on the linoleum and gasp at the windows.

shafts of light play with our hair. our marriage is a comfortable pile of clothes, multicoloured, clean yet wrinkled with tears and time. our fingers lock, our heads bow and we peel open the gates of heaven approaching the throne of grace.

we cannot see for the windows! we cry. there are too many. it's too bright. give us answers, point us in the right direction. you may have closed one door but ... which window should we climb through?

we lie there as the morning sun shifts its rays and the shadows fall, silhouetting our lives on the walls. in the glow of the mid-day sun, a window glistens. God's finger points and we climb to our feet, ready to open its latches.

a wrinkled pile of laundry being shaken out, freshened up, and prepared to be worn again.