Wash Me. I'm Dirty

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