If I happened to be visiting Mom on laundry day,
I would carry the basket of wet clothes outside
and hang them on the line for her. On this
particular day in mid-June, blazingly bright sun
revealed rust on the lines, rust I’d never noticed
before. It wasn’t severe, but I worried that
it might come off on the clean, white sheets.
I took an old wet rag that we kept hanging
over the edge of the laundry basket and wiped dirt,
dust, and bird droppings from the lines.
The stubborn rust did not come off.
It only left an orange streak on my rag. Why
hadn’t I seen the rust before now? Maybe
in the past I just stopped looking, was
concentrating on hanging the clothes and
nothing else.
Rust doesn’t usually come overnight.
It’s a slow, patient thief that works in the dark,
turning bright, strong iron into something fragile
and flaky. Have the nuts, bolts, and cogs of
my life rusted, too, without my noticing?
The internal gears of each of my days
has ticked away in the background, accumulating
wear and tear while my attention was turned
elsewhere. How many storms did it take to turn
silver medal into this rough, burnt orange?
Did Mom notice the rust first, steering the wet
cloth away from orange spots with an old,
practiced caution? Where else has dampness
of time settled inside me while I was looking
the other way?
As I go on working, I hear the snapping of
wet sheets in the wind, the beautiful rhythm
of helping Mom one clothespin at a time.
