The writer Ruth Moose wrote
that
“there is joy in clean laundry.”
Sadly, there are far fewer clotheslines
where I live in Connecticut than
in Italy. But occasionally I still
find a
line of beautiful laundry —
outside
the train window on Metro-
North,
in a yard in New Haven
stretched
between trees. The fabric
moves in
the air, fluttery for lighter
things, and
undulating in more
solemn waves
for heavier items.
The lines are
ordinary and indiscreet.
Underthings
and pillowcases,
a child’s pajamas,
all open to view.Now, wherever I am, I scan the
sky,
looking up, sketching, trying
to
learn the rhythm of the wash as
if
deciphering a foreign language.