Laundry Day

The laundromat is like another planet.

I remember running up and down the scummy tile as a child before we had a washer and dryer at home, crawling in and out of the baskets even though I knew I wasn't allowed, fancying the miniature detergents for play instead of purpose. Whatever familiarity I had then is lost now. Even in college I never washed more than a few pairs of jeans in the sterile dormitory basement, the sister place of this suburban wash.

I brought a fistful of coins for no reason, and had to be shown how to use the machine. She was so quick I'm not at all sure it was a lesson; I think she was just doing it for me. It's like I've never laundered anything in my life, sitting here nursing a panic that I should've gone with cold water instead of hot, that white and off-white will find a way to compromise each other.

But I watch our duvet, our down comforter, and our new sheets spin in the foam, and there's something about it that feels a little bit like my mother, for all I haven't kids to beg to sit down or a smoking habit to indulge between loads.

But there, I've seen a scrap of pure white tumbling, and I'm sure I haven't screwed up.