Sunlight filtering onto the salt-stained pavement peeking through snow and ice. The sound of birds, many, singsonging their tales of travel to their partners and friends. It’s a Sunday morning. I’m doing laundry. All I can think about are the times I would wait for the bus with my parents in front of my house, winter jacket changing to a light zip-up, jeans swapped for shorts. All I can think about is the promise of more time with friends, and the anticipation of nights filled with s’mores in my backyard and as many rounds of manhunt until we decide to cram all twelve of us into my bedroom, whispering jokes and lightly giggling until the sun rose. My steps are weightless under the two large bags of dirty clothes and sheets.
But as soon as I step inside the laundry room, my chest is heavy with the faces of all my friends of the past, now dwindled down to the only one I keep in contact with. I watch the washer baptize my clothes, the colors darkening with water. They will be cold when they are done.