they’d dangle like tragic tightrope walkers, splintery legs hooked onto the line, random breeze adding decadence to the danger before my eyes. would they drop and fall, these solitaire risk-takers, for what else destined would be their way? with knobby knuckles grandma added to the heart-stopping spectacle, digging deep into a stained cloth pouch, adding in number the precarious daredevils. held always captive their show mesmerized, though it meant the small wooden graveyard scattered beneath the smoldering august grass would grow by one, perhaps another more. i loved when grandma did and aired the wash. i loved inhaling the sheets and clothes even more, the redolence of sky so rich up into my nose that i ignored the death zest crawling like awful spiders up toward the windows whenever grandpa mowed the lawn.
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