The line sags in a pregnant curve as wet clothes are draped, the line to become shallow and taut as dry air whips the water from the fabric. Each piece I add, I find myself calmer, the rhythm of drape, clip, shuffle to the right, setting my mind in order. White shirts snap and feel as though starched when they’re lifted off, stiff as a plank of salted cod. Sun and air do work better than any machine and I find myself wondering why line-drying has ever slipped through our fingers as old-fashioned or inconvenient. The sideways meditation shuffle of loading and clearing the line cleanses my soul, leaves me as clean as the clothes on the line.
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