37 Autumn McDonnel It took me several weeks to work up the courage to wash and fold our dirty laundry. I’m still not finished, although the piles are slowly starting to dwindle. Each load that I gradually washed and folded gave me hope that I’d reach the end soon. I put my second-to-last load in the dryer before I went to sleep last night, and when I arose in the morning, I woke up the machine to fluff up the shirts and pants and socks that lay still and wrinkled throughout the night. The dryer played me its song when it had finished. I hate doing the laundry But I love that song. I unload the freshly warm clothes into our basket and carry it into our bedroom closet. I sort and begin to fold. Shirt by shirt. Pants by pants. Sock by sock. Yours. Mine. Yours. Mine. Yours. Not mine. I stop. I knowwhose shirt this is. I know you knowwhose shirt this is. The shirt is red. The shirt is soft. The shirt is not my size. The shirt is not my style. The shirt is beautiful. laundry
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