Many Muses
Three Sheets
She hangs her laundry in the backyard, where the heat of a common middle-sized yellow star ninety-three million miles away will dry them. She hangs them where the sheets catch the breeze that passes through the neighbor’s azaleas, where a ladybug will land and explore the topography of a billowing pillowcase. The backyard where barefooted children will run through them, playing and laughing. Where the bedspread gently muffles the rich, piping whistle of an oriole.
That night when she goes to bed in the newly-cleaned sheets, when she lays her head on the down-filled pillows, when she closes her weary eyes, it’ll all come back. She’ll breathe in the scent of the distant sun. She’ll smell the sweet azaleas and the copper-smelling counterpoint of the ladybug. She’ll inhale the laughter of the children, and the musical sound of birdsong.
And her dreams will be sun-dappled, with distant music and muted voices. When she wakes, the dreams will fade leaving only a memory as ephemeral and light as the tickling walk of a ladybug on her wrist.
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