Whe it came to dishes, or any kind of cleaning for that matter,
It was better not to ask Lesley,
But rather just fine out,
If the mood was going to strike her, or not.
When it did strike her, she became a whirlwind,
Of frenetic, intense, cleaning activity,
A veritable tornado of power,
Sweeping through those dirty dishes,
And other detritus from yet another family gathering.
Nobody could stop her, or try to get in her way,
It was hers and hers alone,
And, by the time the storm had passed,
And the dust had settled,
The kitchen absolutely gleamed.
Other times she was, what the family described:
'Out-of-it', practically comatose on the couch.
That vacant expression once again, waiting, I suppose,
Until it was all over, so someone could drive her home,
And she could be alone with her cat.
There was one time, Lesley and I together in the kitchen,
Chaos everywhere from another family dinner,
That I said, looking intensely at her:
"Hey! Could I get a little help here please?"
It was the only time in our entire relationship,
She told me to "Fuck off!"
Helene.