I blink at sky, fiery yellowthis time of afternoon, as I unpinlaundry flapping in an intermentbreeze like flags of surrender.Clothes have wrapped around themselves,knotted into cloth cocoons. I releaseshirts, towels and pillow casesfrom a handful of wooden pinsI fold each piece before placing itin a bushel basket, drop pins into a metal can.
It was yesterday the doctor told meI have diastolic congestive heart failure,not an uncommon condition, but a noteof where I am on the life-death continuum.He is a young, stocky doctor with a mindsharp as a March wind. I believe he caresthat I am short of breath.
Bed sheets have also wound around the line,shrouds with bodies inside thin as rope.I fold the sheets into compact squares, neatas a finished life. From looking up,my eyes are sun–numb from glare, the ferocityof light.
Finished, I place the metal can in the basketwith the laundry, carry it to the back porch,and rest a moment on the swing. I thinkhow I am at the edge of my life, so conscienceof time. I gaze out over the emptyclothesline, see hawks have returned, occupythe top of a cellphone tower in the church yard.They sit there, patient, waiting, their beaks readyto climb down the air for anything in whichthe heart has stopped.
Photo by Jason Briscoe on Unsplash
Photo by Caspar Camille Rubin on Unsplash