Four white shirts came through the wash. Brand new. I laundered them with like colors, and they made the rest of the load look grey.
I hung them on the line even though the air was heavy and the sky was dark. Why did I take the chance? I did not want them to shrink in the dryer.
I stayed outside. Drops began to fall. I hesitated. The sky watched me for awhile then began to weep. I unpinned the shirts. I layered them in the basket. I hurried them inside.
After a brief tumble in the dryer, I smoothed each shirt with the palm of my hand. The fabric was warm and coarse and dotted all over with bits of green. The raindrops must have been laced with pollen from the trees that arch over the laundry line, over the house, thick-trunked and messy in the spring.
I think about washing the shirts again but instead I just fold them into imperfect rectangles and tuck them into the drawer. No one will notice.