Violet's Wash

Violet's Wash You can't have nothing clean. I scrubbed like a crazy woman at Isom's clothes that first week and here they come off the line, little black stripes wherever I'd pinned them up or hung them over—coal dust settles on the clothesline, piles up like a line of snow on a tree branch. After that, I wiped down the clothesline every time, but no matter, you can't get it all off. His coveralls is stripy with black and gray lines, ankles of his pants is ringed around, like marks left by shackles. I thought I'd die that first week when I seen him walk off to the mine, black, burnt-looking marks on his shirt over his shoulder blades right where his wings should have been. —Diane Gilliam Fisher ...