I have strong memories of sitting next to my mother as she hung the washing out.
While she was naked.
There was a lot of nudity in my childhood.
I remember watching her arms stretch up. Breasts lifting.
Sometimes people came to visit, and my mother reluctantly put clothes on.
I picked at the clover and watched. I was naked too.
She seemed a giant, all powerful, all good, all loving.
And needy. Attention meant she wasn’t invisible.
She looked beautiful.
Meanwhile, I busied myself with eating sand