|
A little past noon on a
gorgeous, not-too-hot,
breezy summer day
David C. Fischer put a
load of laundry on the line,
behind his Fjord, Wisconsin, home.
It was only one washer load, but so many
items that he almost ran out of clothespins.
A week’s worth of socks, boxer shorts, T-shirts, and
other things whose wrinkles won’t matter to Dave.
A few more shirts than you might think, because,
more than once in the course of the week, Dave had
hugged someone who wears perfume. Like most
blessings, a mixed blessing, the intoxicating scent.
And now—thought Dave, his nose pressed to a
dark gray, damp, cotton T-shirt—it’s gone,
and I can’t for the life of me remember it.
♦
|
