Scene 228: Laundry Day

I sit

with pastel colors on my lap

happy as Easter.

The fabric beneath my fingers

breathes

and speaks to me

telling me stories of stains

rich in tomatoes, mustard,

aspartame and

salt water.

I fold the shirt

and put it in my basket.

Breathing in the Spring Fresh scents

from the static-less jeans,

I run my fingers down the worn seams

faded

like a memory

but nevertheless present.

I listen

and the pants tell me secrets

how it ran in the rain,

went on that first date,

how it dropped on the dirty floor and laid,

and how the suite

sensed the love of Chicago.

I fold them gently

laying them next to my spotted tie

that saw every important occasion.

Gathering my clothes,

I leave the Laundromat and get in my car.

The road is empty

but at least

my car smells sweet

like Spring Fresh scents.

I see a river, and pull up on the bridge.

I bring my laundry.

I cross the bridge and stop

halfway

my basket teetering over the rail.

I close my eyes, and gently push.

I get back on the road, driving elsewhere

as my clothes sit in the riverbed

slowly drowning