She stoops, this spring-fresh day, to disentangle wet, fragrant rags into discernible pieces of clothing. Methodically, she selects each item by size and colour to ensure uniformity on the line as she pegs. She misses hanging his things: heavy stiff jeans; flimsy, oft-times holey shorts; battered socks, his shirts’ ever flappable sleeves. A sweat-stained cap. Sheets, pillowcases, her things, the kids’ things, towels…there are no gaps on the line to reveal his absence, to reveal he is gone. But he is gone.
In the routine thoughtlessness of her task...pick up, shake; peg, peg; pick up; shake, peg, peg, push…she thinks of him.
His hands, rough with a touch ever soliciting involuntary electrically-charged reactions from her body. Still. After all these years. His eyes, his smile, small wrinkles near his ears, the man-smell of his hair as he nuzzled her breasts. She wonders where he is, what he’s doing in that foreign place. Her thoughts skip from reality to imagination. Imagination descends to dark places and worry.
In a gust of wind, she hears them. Turns her face to the sky, eyes searching. Holds her breath
as they suddenly appear past the roof-edge, flying in line formation. Their honking loud but not enough to cover their wingsound as they pass directly overhead, the large male leading his smaller female. White cheek patches clearly visible against long, black-stockinged necks.
She holds her breath and watches: this lone twosome on their journey home, flying north to their birthplace. Watches until they become minute silent specks, then nothing at all. The line creaks softly in the spring breeze. Wonders if birds are migrating over his head over there. Birds mated for life, travelling in pairs. Like the two of them. Birds to remind him of home, of her, of the kids. Of Canada. Of this spring ritual.
Pick up, shake; wipe a tear; peg, peg, push.
In the routine thoughtlessness of her task...pick up, shake; peg, peg; pick up; shake, peg, peg, push…she thinks of him.
His hands, rough with a touch ever soliciting involuntary electrically-charged reactions from her body. Still. After all these years. His eyes, his smile, small wrinkles near his ears, the man-smell of his hair as he nuzzled her breasts. She wonders where he is, what he’s doing in that foreign place. Her thoughts skip from reality to imagination. Imagination descends to dark places and worry.
In a gust of wind, she hears them. Turns her face to the sky, eyes searching. Holds her breath
as they suddenly appear past the roof-edge, flying in line formation. Their honking loud but not enough to cover their wingsound as they pass directly overhead, the large male leading his smaller female. White cheek patches clearly visible against long, black-stockinged necks.She holds her breath and watches: this lone twosome on their journey home, flying north to their birthplace. Watches until they become minute silent specks, then nothing at all. The line creaks softly in the spring breeze. Wonders if birds are migrating over his head over there. Birds mated for life, travelling in pairs. Like the two of them. Birds to remind him of home, of her, of the kids. Of Canada. Of this spring ritual.
Pick up, shake; wipe a tear; peg, peg, push.
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