Washing
--
In the bright sunlight, his mother works
(splash-dash-swish-swish)
Lyme-reddened hands, cracking, splitting knuckles, let her blood mingle with the water –
but not the clothes.
No,
The clothes were clean, white, dazzling in sunlight.
Blood did not touch them.
Dirt was banished.
Light shone through them.
In his memory, on the banks of a childhood river in a fresh breeze, his mother washed pure light.
-
And this was brighter.