I Wash the Shirt by Anna Swir For the last time I wash the shirt of my father who died. The shirt smells of sweat. I remember that sweat from my childhood, so many years I washed his shirts and underwear, I dried them at an iron stove in the workshop, he would put them on unironed. From among all bodies in the world, animal, human, only one exuded that sweat. I breathe it in for the last time. Washing this shirt I destroy it forever. Now only paintings survive him which smell of oils.
Posted on: Sun, 31 Aug 2014 19:56:20 +0000
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