Clotheslines

Rusty, cream-colored clotheslines were intermittently built around the apartment community. Deer Creek, with its rolling fields of green, beaconed my brother and I to play . All of it was ours - well in our minds. When no one would come out to play, we would hang around the rusty clotheslines. Two cross poles were connected with metal wires. Shirts and jeans of blue, with spots of a brownish hue, hung on those rustic lines.

On Winter days, we would wake up to the blinding sea of snow right outside our window.

Squint a little, they would say, or else you can go blind.

The clothesline poles were too cold to hang from, so we left them alone.

Friendships were formed around those clotheslines. Someday I will find my friend, even with the revolutionary internet, I can't seem to find her. So wires serve as a remembrance of a friendship that ended hastily, without a goodbye.

I watched a documentary in class about South Central LA and I couldn't help but time travel back to those clotheslines and Deer Creek. Even though, it was a tumultuous time, I would greatly like to hang around them once more.