Under the clothes

I need to see Jim today.

We're off on holiday this week and I won't have another chance.

Jim had a stroke years ago and keeps falling at home.

This time he's really done it. A broken hip.

I go to the ward, but they're working with him.
So I take myself down to the chapel to pass the time.

I've never been in this room before
but already I love it.

The low lighting,
the space
the artwork.

And best of all
the background hum of the air conditioning.

Sitting there, alone,
I'm back under the clothes.

I'm three or four, I think,
and it's wash day.

Mum working the twin tub,
pulled out from under the draining board.

I love to burrow
under the warm, spun dry clothes
and hide in the darkness,
sidling up to the cosy metal
and feeling the vibrations
pulse through my wee body.

And the low thrum of the machinery
lulls me better than any cradle song.

This is a womb.
And in the womb of my soul
the seed of the numinous is planted.

And the glory of this little idiosyncrasy;
this spiritual fingerprint,
is that any time I hear the quiet hum
of a machine going about its business,
it takes me back under the clothes
to feel again the warm contentment of innocence.

Mum is there,
God is there
and all is well.