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.
