Pink Sheets

written by Nathan, April 11, 2010

Two boys, young men really, dressed in color of dry blood smocks, wring out pink cloth on our veranda. Every cloth has the hew of blood, the heart color ranges of poppy, the pink of Irish cheeks, the rose of Ethiopia. They are not tattered. They are speckled in earthen yellow, faded ochre, stolen Persian golds, buttery burnt saffron,. Flecked in white and cream colored light, they wave against light breezes - laced in shadows and mirrored by dancing stripes of oriental coal black ornament. We share space, and, some days, laundry. Together, we all bend and twist and wring the buckets and buckets. We squat beside our large petrol tubs and night pans making rusted movement like seafarers. But ,we are far away from the sea. We are high in the mountains which build the seas’ breezes. Adena, Roja, Caspina, Muerdissia, India, Pacifica. Every day these boys toil this job. It is their duty. Sheets are soaked, rung, hung and back in business. As are we all.