Pinned in Place

A bed sheet hung out to dry became a screen for shadow animals. But of all laundry days in the neighborhood the windy ones were best, the clothespins like little men riding lines that tried to buck them off. One at a time we ran down the aisles between snapping sheets that wanted to put us in our place. Timing them, you faked and cut like famous halfbacks. But if a sheet tagged you it put you down, pinned by the whiteness floating against a sky washed by the bluing our mothers added to the wash water. Could anyone make it through those days untouched? You waited for your chance, then jumped up and finished the course, rising if you fell again. Later, let the sky darken suddenly and we'd be sent out to empty the lines. All up and down the block, kids running with bed sheets in their arms, running like firemen rescuing children. All night those sheets lay draped over furniture, as though we were leaving and would not return for a long time.