Little Midge Wilkins sat on a folding chair in the intense late morning Manahatchee sun. Or whatever tourists called this place now. The street was quietly busy, and her hopes grew for a successful sale.
Momma glanced upward from the clothesline, shading her eyes. Not a cloud, nor a bird. Not like remembered con-trails crisscrossing a dreamlike periwinkle sky, silently heading to exotic destinations. She suddenly flinched and self-corrected, provided silent inward chastisement and dropped her head in shame from her useless thoughts.
“Days is all mixed up, they are,” she said, and returned to her wet sheets and undergarments. Light that reflected from swaying clothing shimmered in the blistering breeze, played across her face and arms, mocking her attempt to dry the laundry before the middle time. It would take the second morn as well, and she knew it.
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