The Wooden Clothespin

I slipped through the cracked screen door onto the warm boards of the veranda. Beside a low wicker basket, a single wooden clothespin was clipped to the braided rim. Gathering my oversized sleeves carefully against my wrists, I paused to let the afternoon air settle into stillness. I stepped forward and placed both palms against the smooth pine prongs. Taking a deliberate breath, I leaned my weight gently onto the back lever. The little wooden jaws parted with a faint creak. I held them open for one quiet heartbeat, then eased my hands away, letting the coiled spring snap shut with a tidy, muffled click against the wicker.