Poem

Thread Count
by Terri Kirby Erickson

My mother hung wet sheets to dry from a rope
that stretched between two poles in our back yard, her motions
smooth and rhythmic as a synchronized swimmer. She
stooped and straightened again and again, her hands
moving across the line faster than
squirrels on telephone wire.

From my perch on the swing, I watched her work,
pumping my legs until I touched puffy
white clouds with the toes of my shoes, the squeak

of the metal chain steady as a metronome.
My body felt light as dandelion seeds, floating.
Higher and higher I swung, until it seemed
I was a kite soaring on the end of a

string. I slung my head back and let
my hair trail in the dirt, closing my eyes so the
sensation in my belly was like the swift

descent of an elevator in a tall building. The sun
felt like warm maple syrup dripping on my
face, and the air smelled of honeysuckle and bacon
grease in glass jars sitting on the window

sill. I opened my eyes as my mother lifted
the last sheet from the pile, with light illuminating the
threads like the hours in a child’s summer day,
too many to count.