1971, age five
The wet sheets flapped and ballooned in a light breeze. The kind of cool breeze you longed for on hot summer afternoons like that. I ran my small sun browned hand across the chill dampness of the bright white sheets. The fresh coolness felt so good. I walked into the sheet and felt it pull over my face and hair. I let it drag across my dusty arms. I lifted my long hair and felt the refreshing coolness slide over my hot neck as I walked under the clothes line again.
It wasn’t long before I noticed that the sheets were no longer bright white. They were smudged and streaked. I looked at my tanned arms. They were clean and moist. I was horrified at what I had done to my mother’s hard work. I took a quick glance at the kitchen window and the back porch expecting to see her standing there with her hands on her hips. She wasn’t. I turned and walked toward the woods.
It didn’t take long for my conscience to send me back home and into my mom’s arms while I cried out my confession. And she still loved me.