Anna Note

“Hang it up high,”
my mother says,
“Or the critters will
reach.”
Up on my tiptoes,
my arms extend till they
ache.

“Like this?”
Not a glance
“Perfect.”
But instead a wide smile,
shining like the
blazing sun
that sits high, high,

higher than I’ll ever
go.
“Go fetch the rest.”
Holding the basket,
its faded red tint clashing
with the white linen,
I skip towards the house.

The creaky floorboards
under my calloused feet,
sing with the swallows.
Their sound swallow
my loud sprint to the
laundry room,
across the house.

The damp cloths hug
my sweaty body,
the designated basket long
forgotten in the previous room,
as I run impatiently to my smiling mother,
waiting in the Babylonian
Garden.

“Took you long enough,”
she shouts,
waving at me with another glorious
smile.
“Grab some hooks,”
she points,
once I arrive, heaving.

The splintering wood pieces
tightly hang onto the sheets,
as the wire shakes under my clammy
grip.
“Be more tender,”
Mother indicates, hypnotizing me
with her peaceful hands.

“Tender,”
I repeat.
She winks at me, grinning
like a child.
As the wind blows her hair
into the sky,
the swallows hush

for the sun.

I smile,
too.
Alright with
never quite reaching her
radiance.

At least I can gaze upon
this sun.

–

Anna Note lives and attends school in Paris, France but was born in Switzerland and was raised there for most of her life. She has always been fascinated by all things literature and media, and hopes to pursue these topics in higher education. ‘Summer Child’ isn’t her first work, but one she considers her best.