Laundry, as I came to see it, is a form of ritual. A ceremony of sorts, very much like the rain, gathering clouds, darkening from its weight, and at appointed time, falls down and washes the Earth from all the accumulated dirt and filth.
Never forget the stains.
For there are stains that are easy enough to clear. And some that stay, clinging to the fabric of a favorite shirt. The blights we made as humans on the face of the land. The scabs and scars of life marking the passing of time on our bodies.
So I wash my clothes, hang them up to dry, and by the end of the day, takes them down and, for some, performs another ritual of folding, smoothing the creases, lining the seams, and ironing them flat and almost new, filling the space on the closet or the drawers. I myself, have not found it practical to iron my clothes. My manner of folding is pertinent only to the way I store my clothes, just good enough to fit the space to be occupied. Most of the time, my drawers are filled with stuff going hither and thither. Ironing? What’s the point? I’d crumple it all up a few minutes after I’ve donned the garment.
Besides, most of those who knew me think of me as a monochromatic dresser. My entire wardrobe, if you could call it that, consists of plain white tees, plain black tees, a couple with prints of what I feel is worth wearing, dark jeans, worn out shoes. Some greys to break the monotony. But that’s it. I don’t mean to stand out. I want to blend in. Blend with the crowd so good, I’m virtually invisible, just a nother face in the crowd.
But I perform the ritual every week, like most things in life, in cycles measured in hours, days, weeks, months. I wash, dry and fold and repeat the process. Oh I’m good with my laundry. I’m also good with my clothes. Most of hem last for years and years. But there are some I will have to throw away, or maybe donate to a cause. Not the stained ones, these I will keep.
These marks remind me of something.