Sheets for Clouds

J.M. Cogdell

Stuffy, I can’t breathe. The crush of bodies, and the heat from the small kitchen, it’s all too much. I murmur the appropriate replies making my way to the back door. I slip out welcoming the quiet and the cool afternoon air. In the middle of the yard, against the fading light, I spot what looks like a leaning cross. The irony is not lost as smiling I reach out and brush off a piece of rust from the lone pole. Hard to believe this rusted piece of steel, with the help of its missing twin, once held the imagination of three little girls, and the weight of Mama’s sheets. The wind ruffles the leaves at my feet and memories flood my mind as I look down the hill at the fence that now separates the neighbors.