Colored Jeans on the Clothesline: Such Precious Days Don't Last
Up early every morning, cleaning house and taking care of the family duties with the spirit, vitality, and energy of youth, far too busy to treasure the day, with a son in the first grade. She took pride in the fact that she kept a spotless house and had dinner on the table when her husband returned from work. She hung her son’s jeans out in the sunshine and fresh air, glad he had a pair of each color for school. They hung neatly, all in a row, jeans of brown, black, green, navy, maroon, and blue.
Where did those days go? Before she knew it, her son was grown and gone, with kids of his own. Those precious family days were a treasure that didn’t last. All too soon, spring turns to summer, and kids grow up too fast, leave home, and are gone. Summer turns to fall. Fall turns to winter. What you wouldn’t give to hang those precious little jeans of every color on the clothesline and watch them blow in the wind! Such precious days don’t last.
Those were the days, the best days in life. Such precious days fly by with the speed of lightening. Suddenly, she wonders where did the time go? How did she get to be this old? She no longer cleans her house with the spirit, energy, and vitality of her youth. What she once took pride in, is dull, boring, and humdrum, just another ordinary, routine day. Now, there are no little jeans blowing in the wind. No first grader will come home to excitedly tell her about his school day. Those are all things of the past, things she didn’t treasure when she had them, because she was always in such a hurry, things that didn’t last.
Now, her little grandson’s mother throws his bluejeans in the dryer as she rushes to get ready for work each morning. The hands of time slip by like a silent thief. Off to work. Off to school. School years fly. No little colored jeans blow in the wind, days of the past, treasured days that just don’t last.
First published at USA.DeepSouth.com
Author retains copyright
(I have an idea for revising again and making this into a full story) This piece was written about the days I hung my oldest son's jeans on the line. His name is Scotty, and he was named after the song, "Watching Scotty Grow". When I wrote this piece, I knew nothing of author's craft and word choice. My writing has changed so much in the past five years. I have edited the first chapters in my manuscript so many times. Yet, each time I read it, I find myself changing another word for word choice. Something else jumps out at me, and I think of another way to improve it. By the time I let it go, it should shine for God. At this rate, will I ever let it go? :)