When I take in my hands, soft, fragrant laundry and buried my face in it with closed eyes, all of a sudden is filled with pleasure, and I return several years back.

In eyes tender, already wrinkled hands. Quivering and flying around me. These hands want to protect in love, to cuddle in love, to satisfy in love. They smell on strudel, smell on the most tasteful meals and smell on clean laundry.

In my eyes, She devotionally and carefully selects our neglectfully thrown clothes. She perks and enjoys the fact that her laundry is as white as snow from Alps. The whitest in the whole neighborhood; the whitest in the whole Universe. Laundry perks as well. There are starched collars, boiled mops and children’s clothes on the wire for drying and in all these, hope, wishes and thoughts are weaved, to protect us as a kind of amulet when we are not near her.

I am watching her ironing. She wearilessly pressing, because she is motivated by love. They are dancing, She and the iron. The perfect small pleats, sleeves without lines, shirts without wrinkles. It is a magical dance, all to be pretty, somewhere else, when we are not near her.

She so devotionally took care about us. She and her the most beautiful wrinkled hands. Such is special the love of one granny.

I am now striving for the fastness of these hands. I practice constantly to have my laundry shines with whiteness as hers. To make all wrinkles, lines disappeared from the land. I cannot repeat her grandness, but I can bring You back to the warmness of your childhood. I can make clean laundry to become simple time machine! That is particularly the reason why we are here for You.

Writing soon,
Your Štirk