#2,819 Sorting Laundry.
I read this poem in my high school AP English textbook and even though I was too young and inexperienced to relate to it, it made my heart seize and I imagined in that instant the feeling of having a life with someone like that. Sunday nights, Ben lugs the clean laundry baskets into the living room and we sit side by side, watching Parenthood, folding and sorting together, putting it all away so we have clean clothes for the very busy week.
“Sorting Laundry” by Elisavietta Ritchie
Folding clothes,
I think of folding you
into my life.
Our king-sized sheets
like tablecloths
for the banquets of giants,
pillowcases, despite so many
washings, seems still
holding our dreams.
Towels patterned orange and green,
flowered pink and lavender,
gaudy, bought on sale,
reserved, we said, for the beach,
refusing, even after years,
to bleach into respectability.
So many shirts and skirts and pants
recycling week after week, head over heels
recapitulating themselves.
All those wrinkles
To be smoothed, or else
ignored; they’re in style.
Myriad uncoupled socks
which went paired into the foam
like those creatures in the ark.
And what’s shrunk
is tough to discard
even for Goodwill.
In pockets, surprises:
forgotten matches,
lost screws clinking the drain;
well-washed dollars, legal tender
for all debts public and private,
intact despite agitation;
and, gleaming in the maelstrom,
one bright dime,
broken necklace of good gold
you brought from Kuwait,
the strangely tailored shirt
left by a former lover…
If you were to leave me,
if I were to fold
only my own clothes,
the convexes and concaves
of my blouses, panties, stockings, bras
turned upon themselves,
a mountain of unsorted wash
could not fill
the empty side of the bed.