now i know

from the window,
elbows against the furrowed
threads of an old
sofa i'd stare out at my mother
hanging clothes on
the rope line.
a clothespin in her mouth
as she pulled
the heavy wet
shirts and pants, dresses
of her children
onto the line to dry.
sometimes she'd stop and smoke
a cigarette,
leaning against the fence,
staring into the overgrown
grass, and weeds.
I wonder now, older than she
was then,
what went through her mind,
how would her world
change,
how could this struggle
she was forever in
ever end. now I know.