Pietra looked forward to laundry days at the river; she felt well-loved there. Her bare foot touching Maria’s, Maria’s touching Annelise’s, Annelise’s pressed into Graciella’s, one end of a rope tied around her ankle, the other around her son’s. He’d once floated downriver.
The women told stories against the background slap of their men’s shirts against rocks; the sound of cold water dripping from jeans hung on bushes to dry in the sun, reminding them their work was near completion.
Sometimes the friends stayed longer than needed. Braiding one another’s hair, laughing, perhaps drinking tea, for they knew what waited at home.
Up From the Ashes 