I washed my sheets today and hung them to dry outside in the sun, just like you used to do, clipped with wooden pins to a plastic line.
They hung like white flannel flags of surrender waving at the Arizona heat. And I remembered why you preferred line-dried towels. How you said they smelled of summer and loved the small roughness of fibers that had not been softened by modern conveniences.
Today, I thought that tomorrow will be four weeks without you, yet every day there's something of you filling the small moments of my day.
Dec 14, 2024
Laurel
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