Washing Machine

Washing Machine There was a time I always went home, by road rail, flight or by bus I always got there and still do. Even though when I get there I want to leave. The house shrinks every year sibling’s gone mother too, she never looked up from the romantic novel she was reading to say halloo. 1953, it was summer, well there are summers every year, some are warm, some not. I was home from the sea and had bought mother a washing machine and we were the only ones in the street that had one it was a warm summer, open windows, cold beer and laughter. Then for a reason I could not fathom a silence fell, the sky was grey and nothing was the same again; it was only me who kept returning home. The washing machine I bought in 1953 is still in the basement rusty and dusty, but it had for a short time brought happiness and an end to stifling poverty after the war ended, when factories stood still and it was hard to be working class.