Laundry Day

She drags her stains around with her in large black garbage bags. She hauls them through the front door, waiting only a second before dumping them onto the floor. There are panties wadded into balls, stray socks with shit brown soles and graying, tattered bras limp like ragdolls in her hands.

She crams all of her dirty laundry into one front-loading washing machine carelessly. She pushes and strains and uses her feet to make it all fit. Powdered detergent from the vending machine is 75 cents. She buys it, ripping the orange box with her teeth. She adds the chalky soap and softens her stance when the machine begins its cycle.

Two young children with matching cornrows in their hair–one boy, one girl–roughly play at her feet. The girl child opens her mouth to pierce the calming hum of tumbling dryers with a high-pitched scream she summoned from deep within her. Then she ran and hid behind a clothes cart.

The sad-faced woman seems not to notice at all, her eyes fixed on the now flipping and sudsy articles of clothing. The boy, his hands tacky with Orange Crush and BBQ potato chips watches the woman watch the wash. He wonders if she sees the same ghost in the machine.

The woman’s eyes are not vacant but entirely still. She switches her slight weight to the other floot and her tiny back expands with every pained inhalation. Each time her shoulders rise I wonder if she’ll bother to draw another breath.

The boy remains near her, his tight braids coming only to her thigh. He looks around to see if anyone is looking and holds his palm flat out to her, as if he were offering up candy or a small gift. He searches expectantly for a response to his outstretched hand in her dead stare. She doesn’t move, just stands quiet, though she must have seen or sensed the child’s gesture.

Defeated, the boy goes to find his sister, still hiding behind the clothes cart. He tells her he doesn’t know when they get to go home.

And still she stood.