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Laundry Day July 15, 2002, 11:44 p.m. The water in the sink turned a different color with each garment. Like dirty Kool-Aid, I thought, startled by the hues that emerged from my clothes. The blue shawl stained the water lavender, the red skirt filled the sink with peach juice, and the deep green dress that smelled like woodsmoke left a freakish yellow-green the color of grass stains. I had waited too long to deal with my "hand wash only" embroidered dresses and crinkly skirts, and now the pile reprimanded me. My arms ached by the end from wringing the water out of the fabric, and even so drips marked a dotted line across the porch floor beneath the clothesline. It felt good, though, to see them hanging there, clean by the labor of my hands. My summer wardrobe, made in India and Argentina and Nepal, dancing in the wind. Later we hung bright napkins in rows to dry in the breeze. Quilt squares, thought my mother, and I thought, Tibetan prayer flags. Dancing in the wind.
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