My mother hung wet sheets to dry from a rope

that stretched between two poles in our backyard,

her motions smooth and rhythmic as a synchronized

swimmer. She stooped and straightened again

and again, her hands moving across the line faster

than squirrels on telephone wire.

 

From my perch on the swing, I watched her work,

pumping my legs until I touched puffy

white clouds with the toes of my shoes, the squeak

 

of the metal chain steady as a metronome.

My body felt light as dandelion seeds, floating.

Higher and higher I swung, until it seemed

I was a kite soaring on the end

 

of a string. I slung my head back and let my hair

trail in the dirt, closing my eyes so the sensation

in my belly was like the swift

 

descent of an elevator in a tall building. The sun

felt like warm maple syrup dripping

on my face, and the air smelled of honeysuckle

and bacon grease in glass jars sitting on the window

sill. I opened my eyes as my mother lifted

the last sheet from the pile, with light illuminating

the threads like the hours in a child's summer day,

too many to count.

 

 

From Thread Count (AuthorHouse, 2006).

Used here with the author's permission.