by Mandy Schroder
The wash was my favorite chore for its smell reminded me of a childhood formed by my loving (yet obsessive compulsive) grandmother. College came and with it the sound of quarters clinking against themselves in a machine's hollow reservoir. My basket increased, as it does in motherhood, with bibs, sleepers and tiny blankets. A day of suffering made a lighter load a constant reminder of sadness. The wash is my own, no bibs, no sleepers, and certainly no tiny blankets. Now, with great contempt, I return to slip silver in the mouth of a machine.
Mandy Schroder, when not doing laundry, can be reached here.