Lady of the Clothesline

From a helicopter Yonkers has a strange look to it. There are clotheslines everywhere. This sight may not seem unusual, until one notices that the maze of clotheslines stops at the city line. The outlying communities have gone “upscale” and don’t want the lines anymore. Malls and Starbucks are in, and clotheslines are out. It’s that simple.

For years the old lady had come out everyday to hang clothes. In the old days she leaned over the fence and talked to the neighbors on all sides. News was passed back and forth, and plans were made. Nowadays I guess they call it networking. In between the hanging of blue jeans and t-shirts, babies were named, parties planned, and morality reinforced through the passing of gossip.

Some years ago she came less often to hang her clothes. The neighbors said her memory was going. Where she once hung whites, she now put colors. Names were forgotten, and there was a distant look to her eyes. Then one day she was gone. People went to visit her on a regular basis, but it wasn’t the same, of course.

As the helicopter whirled away, he saw the house where she had lived for fifty years. Soon he was distant, and the clotheslines faded away. The sound of the chopper was loud, and he looked out to the suburbs, which were extending to the east, as far as his eyes could see.