by Grace Scott
Hangers click in a hot breeze, the smell of cotton and laundry detergent mixes with the scent of roses and other wild things. The urge to laugh bubbles in my chest, the desire to dance as I hang up damp clothes. The wide porch, the peeling paint, the warm pavement under my feet, all remind me of Spain. Spider strings float across the sky as I look up through the clothesline. If I were light enough, I’d catch one and float through the air, following the currents like a boat on the water. Hot summer air fills up my lungs, slowly expanding, and my feet almost leave the ground. But then that laugh decides to add to the birdsong and whooshes all the air out. Damp clothes hide me like a secret: the funny kind you want to tell someone. The air is cool between the sheets, and the ground looks inviting, covered with daisies. My basket is light now, full of clothespins. Careful I step, bare feet over pavement, dodging a lazy bee and tickling the grass. The house is dark inside, the kind of dark that only exists when the sun is beaming outside. Wood panels creak under my feet, making me smile. The sun pools melted honey into the kitchen, turning the fridge into alabaster and the tabletop into a golden coin. Dishes chuckle bubbles while I load them into their bath, and water whispers your stories into my head. I repeat them again while I borrow shadows’ feet, slipping into the sitting room like a needle through thread. Too much air filling this room’s lungs. It seeps into the carpet and soaks into the walls, into the cracks and out the windows. Your air floats into the sky and burrows into the garden, sprouting up Mexican daisies and sweet peas. Morphine drip and ChapStick. I place a kiss on your hand. Breathing your warmth through my lips, into my lungs. Pressure tightens into a sob, but releases as a laugh: a whoosh to mingle with your air. When I think of your life, I think of an intake of breath. The exhale; a mystery. A laugh. A sob. A song. An inappropriately timed comment. A breath to float in the breeze, as you tend to your flowers.