By Deb Whittam
It was a well-worn path; she had walked it a thousand times. When the sun shone she had meandered down its length, enjoying the warmth as she admired the flowers blooms. She had cursed when the rain came teeming down, hurrying down this treacherous path clutching her precious load to her chest as she slipped on the uneven cobblestones.
Sometimes in her more philosophical moments she believed that this daily walk encompassed her whole existence. It was the measure of her joy, heartache, despair, even resignation but then reality forced her to concede she was only hanging out the washing.