Memories Lost in Waynoka, Oklahoma

The clothes line ran between the broad side of the tool shed and the Leyland Cypress 20 feet away. I sat in my metal folding chair watching 10 shirts dry, and I sipped on Country Time lemonade. Every time I pull the chair out of the shed, it has a layer of dust on it. It's gritty to the touch. After I wipe it down with my bare hands, it feels like I sanded some pine with 220 grit sand paper.

I love my bad posture. I slouched in my metal folding chair, my right leg extended farther than my left. My back curved with the pressure from the seat and the back rest. I rested my sweaty Country Time on my pant leg, on a coaster of dampness. I rubbed my thumb over the condensation, and I slowly tasted the liquid on my fingers half expecting to taste like salt sweat or lemonade itself. But it was clean water, gently spiked with Oklahoma air.

My shirts waved in the Oklahoma wind. Each shirt is a flag, a symbol of pride. The orange, collared shirt would be the flag for some ostentatious country full of artists and poets high on heroin or drunk on alcohol. The gray polo would be the flag for a drab country of architects and statisticians slowly calculating figures. And the white, ribbed undershirt, would certainly be the emblem of the romantic country, where unconditional love needs no colors or imported fabrics. I almost felt like saluting them, but I didn't want to stand up.

And the clouds darkened. The sirens blared down the street. This is one of the dangers of living in Tornado Alley. I almost felt like running, but I didn't want to stand up. This one would be small. I could feel it.

The "finger of God" touched down south of my house. An EF0 on the Fujita scale. I was right. My house was fine. My tool shed was fine. But a branch from the Leyland broke loose and snapped the clothes line. My United Nations fell to the ground. Disgruntled, I stood up and started collecting my shirts. But I only had 9 now. I couldn't remember which shirt was missing. Memorizing the laundry load is low on the priority list.

The tornado took away one of my shirts. I can imagine it floating like a plastic bag escaped from the garbage can. I thought about searching for the shirt, but it could anywhere in the county. It happens every year, losing my clothes to the tornadoes. I just folded up my chair and took my damp shirts back inside the house to wash them again.