One day
we stop using our dryer.
I don’t know why,
my parents don’t explain.
Better not to ask.

I stand on toes,
fingers strain
to reach dry clothes
in our backyard hanging
on white twine.

The clothes feel
stiff like steel and
smell like canned sunshine.
The shirts stick upright
in the basket.

I miss soft sheets
I folded line by line
in my hands. Now I battle
to smooth and remove
pinch marks left
by wooden pins.
I fold and put away
the laundry with
my questions.