Mami had no time to pat her hair down, let alone share private thoughts the way we did on wash day.Īt the river's edge, I'd tell Mami all the special things I had thought about during the week. Then I'd have to keep on sharing Mami with everyone, especially Papi, who sat on the porch and never moved. Wash day was the day i'd get Mami all to myself. Sparkling white, and river cleanthe clothes smell like fresh-air dreams.We clip them safe to bushes and treesto dry in the sun and flap in the breeze.Later, under the moon's blue lightMami and me smooth the wrinkled clothes right.We fold them into neat little squaresAnd take them back home for all to wear. Then WHACK! I smack the clothes on the rocksto scare out all dirt and grassy spots.Mami scrubs them up and down, and we both swirl them round and round. Our friends wave hola as we slippery-slide On river-age stones to the other side.Where sun rays glimmer on a whisper of shade.And Mami and me tie our hair up in braids. We juggle the soap, the scrub board, and clips. Saturday is wash day for Mami and medown by the river that flows to the sea.We carry the baskets high on our hips. And when you do, that's when it is time to take charge because you sure don't know when the chance will come again.
Sometimes you have no control over what will happen next, as I discovered the year I was twelve years old'but sometimes you do.
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