The clothesline

From that same window where I had observed sun rising from the sky, I saw two clotheslines hanging from one side of the house to the side of another house. A wheel that allows one to wheel the clothes in and out. When they have been sun dried and kissed. There were four pieces of black clothing hanging on one of the two lines, the further out one, and three gray shirts and a pair of white underwear hanging on the line closer to me.

I stood by the window, where I often admired the rising sun over the bay, and I watched the clothes being blown gently by the northern wind. This is a beautiful apartment, one that I could get used to. One I have gotten used to, on occasion. The clotheslines reminded me of another house, another house I owned, a similar clothesline hung from the deck. It was installed by the prior owner. If you traced the line, you'd see it ending at the other side of the street on a pole. The backyard ended before the line ended. The clotheslines contained the same mechanical component. I was always fascinated by it. I liked how it went on and on. On that deck I could see the bay also, the east bay. At that precise moment, I had a daring thought. I wanted to invite B to see my other house.

B stood next to me, and said, "Isn't that cool? I wanted to do a photo documentary of the clothes that have been hung on those lines. It's illegal to have clotheslines in San Francisco, can you believe it?" 

"Such a shame." I answered. I liked clotheslines. I liked clothes hanging on the clotheslines. They smelled wonderful, like the sun, like the spring, like the air. They take on the surrounding environment. Whatever and however the world smelled next to them, they smelled like them. It became them. My old house in the hills had a clothes line, though they were not used. It was surrounded by eucalyptus trees. I wished that I had strung some clothes. At my house now, I had built two clothes lines in the backyard. But I rarely did my own laundry, so I imagined one day my maid would have done something with the lines, though I was never quite sure. As she came in during the day, before my return. In my house in France, there were two clothes lines as well. They were strung from the stone walls to the large pine trees all the way to the back of deep yard. I imagined my previous owner hang colorful silk dresses on those lines in the summer, next to the lilac bushes.

"Often they would have different colored clothes on the lines. There was a pattern." B continued. That day, the color of the clothes on the line were monochromatic. He seemed disappointed. I pictured some days there would be a rainbow colored soft silk shirts all lined up. They'd be blown by the gentle wind, and instead of clothes they looked like the colorful blue and red clothes hung just below the translucent plastic ceiling at a typical Southern Indian open market. 

Earlier that afternoon, B and I laid quietly next to each other, we had drifted into sleep, after we'd spent the earlier part of the afternoon exploring each other. He asked me about my childhood after I woke up. So I shared some stories.

Once B wrote to me that he wanted to get to know me more, about my childhood, my life back in the motherland, and my background. I found myself telling B about moving to a high school where they had a dormitory and how I ended up in one when I was only 12. I had been out of the house since I was 12 years old. B listened and occasionally asked questions. I had gone back to my journals from 1998, I used to tell him all those things, or at least somethings about me, but B had forgotten about them. We were once close, and then we drifted apart, by the time we came back to each other, we had to start all over again. I knew nothing of him. He knew nothing of me. We were two strangers who were drawn to each other's scents. It took two plus years for me to ask questions about B.

"What are you?" I asked.

"I'm part German. Part English or Irish." He answered as I examined two ancient photos of his ancestors. They moved to Nebraska. He said.

Last year while I was in France, he visited his relatives in Nebraska with his son. I knew so little about him, yet I remembered everything he told me. 

Under the sunlight I saw wrinkles on B's face. I saw not the 32 year old man I first met but this 48 year old man who was and is still the love of my life, after two plus years. He kissed me and held me tight. I asked him what time was our Christmas dinner, he said, "on the early side". I said, "Yes so that we could take advantage of early bird special for senior citizens. Like the Sizzler."

He laughed. I wanted a future with this man. I wanted to celebrate his fifty's birthday with him. I wanted to take him somewhere, far, ancient, and full of clotheslines.