I love laundry, sometimes I do 6 loads in a day. There’s just something about the repetition that soothes my soul. It remains predictable whether I’m washing whites, darks, or delicates. Wash, dry, fold, wash, dry, fold.
Wash the dirt and grime off from the night before, the earth that sticks to the fabric to try to keep you grounded but how can you stay grounded when you’re constantly washing to make it pure? Pure from dirt, pure from stain and blemish. Make me pure, wash me until the stain on my mind is gone, wash me until I forget the impurities that left a crimson stain. Wash me white as snow. I’m sorry I am filled with these crimson stains. I’m sorry I have to constantly be washed and washed until the wounds are reopen, creating more crimson stains.
Dry. Evaporate the dampness and cold, create instead warmth and softness. Hang me to dry and make me warm and soft. My name means dark and to be dark is to be cold and I’m tired of the cold that invades my body and resigns in my bones. Yet, even before I was born my name bore the darkness that now resigns in me, so let the sun shine in every dark spot in my body and warm me up until it burns. But if this is too much to ask, then fold.
Fold until it fits into its appropriate place. All you have to think about is how small to fold. But what if it can’t fold that small? What if I can’t fold that small? Small enough for the place I’ve allotted myself. But I fold anyway, thinking, “maybe if I fold myself, I’ll be more manageable.” Because I’ve always been too much. Too big, too emotional, too opinionated, too loud, too much for myself
So I keep folding, because it’s what’s comfortable. But what happens when a comforting habit is physically uncomfortable? What happens when I fold until I break, fold until I shrivel and become tiny pieces of myself? Fold until I disappear? Is the folding then for my comfort or for yours?