it's tied from the low eave of the roof and strung across the lawn to the large maple tree that stands in the center.
ever since i was a little girl, she has carried her sheets in her wicker laundry basket onto the back porch. the tin pail of clothespins sits right inside the door.
from the first warmth of spring to the first snows of winter, the linens flutter in the wind.
it still fascinates me.
on warm days like this one, even in this November chill, my thoughts wander back that clothesline and those rippling sheets and pillowcases.
i despise laundry. it is the one chore i would rather avoid entirely.
but if i had a washline like that, i would do load upon load. i would wash my clothes every single day.
because it's a reminder.
i can't stand on my own.
but i have clothespins to steady me.
one at each corner, holding me to the Line so that i don't fall into the dirt and became filthy again. i was just washed. i want to stay clean.
and these people are my accountability. they bear me up. they hold me to the Line to which i must daily cling.
these sisters and brothers.
and on these cool days, the winds blows my curtains back and lets the breeze caress my shoulders.
it's a reminder, really.
a reminder that i'm held.
by my clothespins to the Line.