The Steady One hangs the wash -
socks like soft bells,
shirts with sleeves outstretched
as though reaching for some small grace.
I mow the back yard in wide, slow rows,
the hum of the engine
like a low chant for summer.
Then, as if the sky opens a door,
I walk through the laundry -
the shirts brushing my arms,
a damp sleeve kissing my cheek -
and I am eight again,
on Lincoln Street,
weaving through my neighbors’ linens
like a ghost who hasn’t yet learned
he’ll grow up.
Back then, we were wild with sunlight.
Our bare feet drummed the soft dirt.
The laundry, our forest.
The sheets, our secret places.
Now, the grass is trimmed neat.
The fence stands firm.
And The Steady One moves between clothespins
with a quiet rhythm
that steadies me too.
Still -
there is magic here.
Not loud, not showy.
Just the hush of cotton,
the sermon of soap,
the miracle of a breeze
that knows both Lincoln Street
and Southern and Kenosha
as home.
GBS
2016
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