In 1982, I plucked this page from a magazine, a picture of a bedsheet that escaped the drying line, set free, flying and gently floating in a beautiful blue, cloudless sky. The magazine, like so many, is gone, but the page remains. I have kept it all these years, traveling from apartment to house to another house, sometimes hanging it on a wall, sometimes saving it in a folder. As things change, the story that it conjures up shifts. Sometimes it’s about being unburdened, feeling light, not shouldering through. Sometimes it’s about being able to see a bigger picture because I’m out of the forest and the view is clear. Sometimes it’s literally a memory of sensations: the smell of laundry drying in the air and the sound of the sheet flapping in a light wind. And maybe its weightlessness is a return to a safe place before my first cry.