Everyday Magic

There is nothing so sweet as clothes hung on the line
There is an art to hanging them, you know, so that taking them down
And folding them into the basket is organized,
So that the pins do not mark the clothes themselves
So that they hang straight and do not develop
Wrinkles
As they swing on the line, as if inhabited
By thinnest ghosts
Who thrive not in darkness
But in brightest sunshine.
I especially loved hanging the diapers,
When the babies were little,
I would take each diaper from the basket
And snap it straight
And then hang it, each two sharing a pin, a long line
Of white cotton, bleached and rinsed
And here's magic: breast-fed baby poop stains
Disappear in sunlight
It's that pure.
On very hot days, by the time I'd strung out all the diapers
The first ones would be dry but I would let them hang
With all the others
And when I'd go out to collect them,
Laying my baby on the grass on a blanket to
Watch from underneath, the white flags of cotton
The blue sky, the branches overhead
They would be stiffer than if I'd dried them in the dryer
More substantial
As all things are, hung on the line to dry.
I love that. It's as if they have been given
A new meaning of their own
A new language of fiber wind-blown and sun-dried
And they fold under my hand like a magic trick
Which I do in the air on their way to the basket
Where they rest, ready to be put away
Made pure and clean again
By water, by soap, by sun and air.
I remember picking up my wide-eyed baby in one hand
The basket in the other,
Propping them both on my hips
Heading to the house
With two perfect armsfull
Of sweetness
While the birds sang us all the way
To my back door.