on solitude.

something about laundry relaxes me.
the whirring of the washer, the tumble of the dryer, the smell of an entire room permanently permeated with dryer sheets and the hint of Tide. the sound of rustling, water draining from the tub where things are hand-washed, the psshhhh of spray starch and the hissss of the iron when it hits moist fabric, the smell of heat, the look of steam.
when i get most tense, and my jaw remains clenched whether i'm awake or asleep, when my muscles knot up and my brain overloads, laundry is the one thing that i really want to do. i want to wash everything, dry everything, fold everything and put it all away, and if that doesn't do it, i'll compromise my slacker mentality and even iron. no one likes wrinkles, after all.
somewhere entangled in this are memories of times spent with my grandmother, or of hiding away in the basement, playing hide and seek in the laundry room, going downdowndown into the dark to read, or to think, down creaky wooden stairs into the blackness and darting from the landing to the coolcold laundry room, bare feet on cement floor, then whole body, sitting on warm dryer or stretched out across an icy detached expanse that battled the tiny splash of sunlight that came through the small window at the top. i could sit and read and see when visitors came, watch their feet passing above, past rose bushes, grass. i was the herald of every new guest and the first to retreat, back to a white noise world of fabric softener, summer linens.
more than sharing orange popcicles with our husky or making a jungle fortress out of azaleas, more than goldfish crackers in a bowl or blocks on an oriental rug or exploring every last corner of the house and creating stories about everything i found, more than walking to the bookstore or hopping over sewage grates or chicken salad sandwiches or late night card games or poetry readings, i miss this simple thing-- the gift of silent, cool solitude.