Bubbles

I slide the 4-meter bamboo pole down toward the wall, careful not to add to the already-scarred white paint and plaster. Pick up the freshly-wet long sleeve shirt, and open one of the sleeves, sliding it onto the smooth beige pole.

I repeat the process with a pair of pants, next, underwear, next, Elephant’s long-sleeved sweatshirt.

Sweat beads as I continue the work.

He’s not going to need that for a while

It’s meditation, this work of hanging clothes.

And I’m a laundry monk.

At first blush, I don’t know exactly where this appreciation for all things laundry came from.

But, come to think of it, maybe I do.

I remember keenly watching Mom (shout out to Eileen for your days and days of hard work!) fill our pea-green (Yep, they made pea-green washing machines in the 70s) top-load machine, adjust the dial and pop out the start switch

and then sitting,

waiting.

I would slyly pull open the lid,

to watch the water slowly fill

and fill

and fill

my anticipation building

until

finally,

kerchunk

zzzzrrrr zzrrrrr zzzzrrrrr zzrrrrrrr

The machine kicked into motion. Clothes, soap, and water united. It was party time, and everyone was on the floor.

I would pick a single piece of clothing and follow it from the top of the heap, down into the base, and back again. A journey, my shirt, a thousand miles in a single step.

And I sat, for what seemed like hours, rapt at the motion, the bubbles, the scent while our dirty clothes slowly,

steadily,

miraculously

became clean.

I would marvel at the engineering behind a spin cycle that magically came to a halt when the lid was opened.

How does it work?

Eventually I came to realize it wasn’t magic. There was a tiny square hole and corresponding not-round peg that stopped the process. Engineering brilliance. For safety, natch.

I followed the jet-black drain hose into the concrete floor, endless bubbles creeping out of the ground, a cotton candy cloud overloading the musty furnace room with sweet-smelling Tide goodness.

Order from chaos, clean, from soil. I’ve always liked it.

I walk down to the bottom of the poles, sliding and spreading the last three shirts out to maximize air flow and speed the drying process.

And pause to wonder.

If there’s a primal need being met by it all. To feel that we are agents of change. Of cleanliness.

Or maybe it’s just nice to have fresh clothes.

Either way,

thanks Mom.

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