Nonfiction by Sandra Marilyn
In the days before a washing machine came to live in my kitchen and car keys came to live in my pocket to further my isolation from the bus people and the laundromat people, I had enjoyed watching those folks. I imagined I could live inside their lives for just a moment, could learn their secrets. My family was fond of saying, “grow where you’re planted”. Since I did not stay where I was planted, I modified it to say, “learn where you land.”
On one of those laundromat days I sat on a hard chair feeling its plastic slat cut into my bottom and watching my clothes tumble in an endless circle. I was feeling a bit lonely and bored when the sounds of the people around me rose up to obscure my self-absorption. The couple in the corner were having a dust-up that sometimes threatened to become too loud for a public place but then was pulled back to an almost whisper. The old man by the front door was chatting with himself in an amiable way and chortling at his own jokes.
At the folding table next to me was a small extended family of women and girls just pulling their clothes out of the dryer and tossing them into a basket. The four young girls seemed to be in a range between eight and fourteen years. My scant Spanish caught just a bit of their jovial conversation about boys and school. Then one of the girls pulled a red sweater out of the pile and held it up for inspection. The girls were average sizes but the sweater had become so small it might have fit a tiny dog. The entire family froze for a moment, stunned by the mistake and maybe considered placing blame. They all stared intently at the tiny sweater and then wide-eyed at one another. Someone had put a wool sweater in the wash when it should have gone to the dry cleaner.
My thoughts were about how much the garment might have cost, how pretty it must have been. Had it been a gift? Which one of them counted it as a part of the wardrobe that defined her style? I would have been extremely angry at the wasteful mistake, and I definitely would have expressed that anger noisily. I would have felt defiled by the intrusion of the clumsy mistake into the collection of things I cherished, things that defined my place in the world. I thought of my own sweaters folded perfectly and waiting for their turn to impress my companions. Just waiting to announce their cashmere luxury to a world that judged my success by my assemblage of stuff. My old left-wing sensibilities rose up to argue that the world needed my intellect, my creativity, my passion, and not my cashmere. And I believed that, but it was a heavy truth laden with responsibility and it struggled to rise above the material preoccupations that lived in the swampy bottom of my soul. The swamp was thick with southern expectations I would never meet. The useless notions about what would be appropriate displays of success grew moldy there on the bottom but steadfastly refused to rot and decompose.
The moment the family had stood gaping at the tiny sweater passed and the girls began a titter that rose steadily into a boisterous mirth. The pure notes of their young voices began to fill the room with their delight. Each girl took a part of the tiny sweater and began to pull, as if they could pull it back into its original size. They pulled and laughed and laughed and pulled and spun around in a circle of mad silliness, until they collapsed on the floor in a flurry of giggles. Their joy rose to the ceiling of the room and fell back down tickling even the grumpiest of the beleaguered laundry doers. Their hilarity swirled and danced around our heads, as captivating as a quartet of piccolos. And it carried them right over the abyss where materialism would like to have captured their sparkly freedom.
Finally, a mock stern glance from their mother, who had only just managed to contain her own giggles, called them back to the pile of unfolded laundry. Mother, grandmother, and the four girls returned to the seriousness of folding clothes but occasional bursts of laughter bubbled up and were sucked back in.
Oh, how I wanted to live for a bit longer in the life of that family of laundry laughers, how I envied them their joyful freedom. I often remember them when I am tempted to believe that objects will save me, that they will present me as I want to be seen, that they matter much at all.
Sandra Marilyn lives in San Francisco with her wife and a tiny dog. She believes it is her responsibility to continually reeducate herself, so she spends her days trying to pry open the doors and windows and searching for the words to describe the light that comes through the openings.
