It was nothing special--an impulse really. The dryer buzzed obnoxiously. Nate sat with a stack of work on his lap, brow furrowed intently. I opened the door, felt the warm cotton in my hands, and I was seven years old watching my mother shaking out freshly laundered towels. Her eyes danced as she draped one around me and the warmth of its hug drove out the basement chill and I smiled.
My eyes, the same blue as hers, sparkle as I take the Snuggle-fragranced t-shirt in my hands and drape it around his neck. His eyes close, his shoulders relax, and he smiles. A little act of legacy.
As I shake out the rest of our laundry, stacking the t-shirts over the back of the chair, smoothing them out as I go, smoothing them just like she does, I can't help but think about how much of her is in the little things I do each day. My mom loves through her details. She adds touches of beauty to her space in a way that seems effortless, and I keep thinking some of her magic will rub off on me as I start a home of my own.
I think of her as I find myself mindlessly mimicking her ways, and I think about what my legacy will be, what my children will remember when they're on their own. A legacy handed down through many generations of women, a legacy of warm cotton, a legacy of love built one little act at a time.