by Carol Casey
I sit among the drying clothes, hidden, yet strangely exposed, under-garments, style-choices, colors wave like flags, my heraldry for warmth, decoration proclamation. I once wore uniforms to school everyone the same, but not.
Crispness defined the echelons—me on the lower tiers, pleats uncommitted, intimidated by folds sharp as swords, slashing self-esteem. I know that my mother spent time ironing. I know that she didn’t do it with all her heart. Her fettered passion, vague and undefined, like my pleats, only sharp upon her tongue. She wanted more. I never iron, never wear pleats, hang clothes on hangers, let air and gravity work. I live a more forgiving, pleat-less life. I hope my daughter will be entirely safe from them, free to set her own standards,own and cultivate her passion.I smell the moisture evaporating, breathe it. Watch sun transform dark hues, breezes tease fabric smooth.