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Sheets of Summer

Microfiction, to take you away, to take you back…

Remember the smell of those cleanest sheets, and the now-gone, gnarled hands that hung them? The ever-summer breeze teeming with tiny wings. You can see the flowered pattern on the dancing, slapping fabric as you slip between concentric squares, damp first then lightening, billowing.

The old shape, a shadow just on the other side, reaching down to the basket, up to the sky as in prayer. Clipping the wooden clothespins in long-beaded verses. Once in a while, this hand transparent as the linens produces a doll made from a pin and some leftover fabric. A miniature player held out from behind the curtains.

Take it. It is love in the form of a hand-made plaything. Your stage is the dried grass poking between the shifting bricks, clotted with lichen.

Child, you need no excuse to hold this floating cloth in your arms — to pull it to your face. Lose yourself inside. Hold these sheets of summer to you. Without permission. Let the adults scold. For one day too soon, these love-twisted hands will be gone, leaving only the legacy of neat-folded sheets with the scent of childhood still drifting off them.

Until you wrap yourself once more in this smell, heavy with the fine dust of the earth, oak shade, crickets. And something else that lingers on the breeze that follows you now. Forever.

We may be locking down bodies, confining families… civilizations, but our minds can drift back, beyond…and to places we’ve never imagined before.

Thanks for joining me on my daily escape. Stay safe.

© Trisha Traughber 2020 image and story.



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