The pile of dirty laundry was all I had for company, each item in the heap telling its own story. Sometimes I wondered if I didn’t want to wash them up. What if the memories attached to each article dissolved in the warm water? What if the floral smell of the detergent replaced the raw scent of the remembrances? I was just another, afraid of letting go of the past. The laundry – with their stains and smells – was the only thing left behind now.
At night, when I lay awake in the darkness, the pile peeked at me – sometimes with a friendly grin and sometimes with a sneer. It formed into a caring friend who was watching over me – probably fighting away monsters while I slept. But some nights, it converted itself into a hideous monster with its head twisted and arms outstretched to get me. Sometimes it sang sweet choruses and other nights it growled and hissed at me, keeping me awake for hours. One night it would gently sway towards me like a caring lover and another night it would creep upon me arousing all the horrors I could feel and make me hide under my blanket, too afraid to open my eyes.
There were days when I picked up one or two clothes to wash, but they always ended up going back into the pile. The red dress that was worn on a first date – a date of sheer romance and frolic. A date that got me hoping for love. The black frock that was worn for my aunt’s funeral – the lonely aunt who died of a food allergy. It smelled of Jess’s tears. She cried on the left shoulder of the dress regretting how she let her mother go so easily.
The navvy suit which was worn for a job interview. The day I met Dr. Francisca who fast became my most treasured acquaintance. She took me to lunch after the meeting and introduced me to several professionals who have offered me more than I could handle during these short months. There was a slight coffee stain on the right cuff of the suit. It still smelled mildly of the rich Colombian coffee that I tasted that day.
The cashmere scarf that kept my cheeks warm during my walk from the library, having spent hours on Greek mythology research; the sheer jacket that I ran to the bakery in to get éclairs to relive me of my heartache; the green skirt in which I danced with David before he left to his home town; the pink cardigan; the yellow sweater; the cotton t-shirt…..
Memories …. So vividly attached to each item…..
I was afraid of washing them away. But I knew eventually I had to. Because even if I washed away the old memories, there will be new ones and the pile will rebuild.
