The Clothesline

It stands in a side yard nearly forgotten
The wire cold and rusty
Frayed in places
Weeds grow against splintered legs

Dark clouds obscure the sun
A promise of coming rain
Afternoon gradually gives way to evening
In the shadows, clothes sway on metal rope

A woman appears
Wicker basket pressed into soft folds of stomach
Weathered hands encase brown handles
Graying hair swirls around the softly wrinkled face

Sheets, towels, tablecloths drop unceremoniously to her labor
Terry cloth in white and brown
Corners frayed and worn
Cotton paisley prints
Soft and faded
Course plaids, light blues, and greens
Stained with food and spotted with bleach
Fabrics that speak years of love –
Warm baths, welcome guests, whispered romance

Behind these items, another row
Disguised, at first, from the street
Now exposed to the casual passerby

Garments of an older generation fall at a touch
Shapeless dresses in drab colors
Good for gardening – and hiding extra weight
Gray dress slacks with an elastic waist
A man’s extra large Sunday shirt
One matching tie – ten years old and thin from use
Work jeans with torn knees and grass stains
Clothes that testify to a life built over decades –
To quiet faithfulness, dedicated labor, long hours

A final row appears gradually
Like layers of an onion
Peeled to reveal a secret

Closely disguised in the back
Nearest to the house and hidden behind practicality
Flashes of pinks, oranges, reds, yellows
Panties, bras, an errant piece of lingerie
Lace and silk stark against cotton and denim

Middle aged hands become nimble, fast
The items fall, a cascade of colors
With practiced ease, they are
Carefully tucked between
Sweat-stained undershirts and Haynes boxers

The woman stoops to collect her load
Thick ankles in old Keds shuffle unsteadily

The clothesline is alone once more
Its wire naked, exposed
Seemingly useless
But the truth hides in rainbow colors
Beneath unfolded socks, jeans, shirts, shorts
Dull colors in boring styles

The truth is bright pink slips
And yellow lace lined camisoles
Speaking to a light, a purpose, a hope
In a life that is aged and weathered
Worn out and overwashed
But not forgotten
Hidden and disguised and tucked beneath
But not entirely unseen

And will appear again
On a frayed, wiry line
At dusk on a cloudy summer day