It is like no other day. The smell of the clothing, the feel of the fabric and the motion and rhythm of the washing board. Then the breeze arrives and the wind pushes the clothes line around and around.... the sound of the metal......... the creaking of the line, the weathering of its joints.... this sound is the sound of my country. The soft aroma from the fresh clothes mix with the wind and the dust particles. I can taste this day.
The colours seem to exaggerate themselves - it's their show. As they flap in the wind the clothes are intoxicated on life... free, young, colourful and a total disregard for consequences. Their natural circadian rhythm is seductive and mesmerising.The shadow projected on to the ground cannot keep up... it seems out of sync.The straight shadowed lines seem to fight the natural tone of the earth.
I think I can hear the sound of those long past, my forbears smiling, approving of the little things in life that they freely had forgotten and were too busy to enjoy. A simple nod of approval.
I am just sitting watching them perform. I am just being. Time seems to stop, wait and watch.Time is watching.
The clothes are dry, it has only been 7 minutes. Once a week for 7 minutes I feel as though I am somewhere special... somewhere others want to be, somewhere I will remember when I am old. I like this place for 7 minutes a week.... on wash day.