Wash Day

The clothes flapping on the clothesline looked as if they might break free of their pegs and take flights across the valley. The bamboo pole that held the line aloft swayed violently and precariously.

It had only been twenty minutes since Mama put out the wash, but they didn’t come down soon, Mother Nature would give them another thorough rinse.

Though the sun still shone brightly on our mountaintop, the mounting breeze foretold a change in the weather. The wind made itself visible, as much as felt. In the dancing leaves of the star apple tree. In the bending fronds of the dwarf coconuts. The laundry hung on for dear life. For even the unobservant, the wind proclaimed its presence. I kept close vigil, in case any of the garments took flight. There was still time left for drying.

I scanned the horizon in all directions. At least, in the two that mattered. To the west, the mountain climbed higher. Southward, it was the same. I turned to the east. Nothing except for the meandering Wag Water, streaming its way through the village below. Only houses could be seen, small from up here, and a few vehicles traveling the road that shadowed the course of the river.

My eyes moved northward, across the verdant hillsides. The green was almost black in most places. The vegetation was dense. It was all but useless to take photographs of these beautiful mountains.

To the naked eye, the deep greens were lush and vibrant, but that never translated well to photos. More often than not, the pictures would be dominated by shadow and the shades of green would melt together into something less than the truth.

Due north, I saw it. In that spot, the shadows were the real kind, caused by the moving clouds. Between the shadows and the sky was the dark wall of rain I expected to find. Not too far away. Not as far as Castleton. Closer than Lawrence Tavern, I guessed. Still far enough away that it made no sound. Hearing it meant it was time to take down the clothes.

They’re as accurate as any clock or stopwatch, those curtains of rain. From the north, the sound reaches you sooner. The length of the plain forms a natural tunnel that allows the sound to bounce from side to side.

Once you hear it, you can take your time and get the clothes in, no problem.

From the east, the the valley is more narrow, so once the rain breaks that far ridge and the droning noise fills your ears, you have to move quick-quick.

I sat on the steps, watching shirts and pants flap. I watched and I listened. When the time came, I would take the laundry back inside until the squall passed. This time of year, that wouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.

It would come and go and then the sun would reign in all its glory once more, presiding over the black-green hillsides. I would hang the clothes back out for Mama and one day, many years later, I would remember all of these small things in colors too vivid to be captured on film.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Author's Note: This poem was first published in the chapbook, Beyond the Horizon: Journeys in Poetry and Prose, 2010]