kinda random
i have three reasons for posting this
1) i was thinking about laundry
2) everyone who has been to camp should read this
3) i needed a place to save it
Walk a Mile
LW, AS, BE, SG, RJC, NM, SB, JS, KS, DK, SM, JS, AH, JH, BB,
Aleah Starr English Seminar
There are many things that I have left behind. They’re hazy now, covered in mud or hidden under a layer of dust. I cannot find a pair of shorts, three root beer flavored dum-dums, a stuffed Menorah and a box of tacks. A string of paper dreidels, a dishroom record to beat, my retainer, and hopefully an impression.
There are things I brought away with me. Souvenirs of a summer.
These are the things you cannot pack in a trunk. Things that would never fit, even when you hurl your weight against the hinges. These belong to sight and smell…the scent of soggy gloves, the musty Grotto couch, dying fish, and 409. The sounds of a water balloon hitting its mark, steady rain, an echo in an empty bathroom, gravel ground beneath a tire, the steady rebounding of hail. Giggles in the dark. We were raw with youth and hope and love and disinfectant.
There are the things one cannot really grasp. The things I’ve learned to do, and learned to love. Being able to determine the fluid that leaks from a car. An undying passion (and appreciation) for Clorox Wipes. The world’s best friends.
And then there are the things you bring home in your laundry bag. They catch you by surprise, as you sit folding the first immense load of wash. They never get mentioned because they are, in fact, unmentionables.
There are many things that mark a family, and I’d have to say, the communal folding of laundry is one of them. We bond, taking a break from sanitization, over caps of detergent and sheets of Bounce. Quietly folding trust between the layers of clothes.
We face a challenge. We stuff ourselves into a cabin, trying to shake the horrible mantra of leaving for home, lives apart under separate roofs. Washing machines spinning without a trace of eachother. We shove our wardrobes into two sacks, one for darks and one for lights. Jumbled together.
I’ve brought pieces of these bunkmates home with me. On multiple rolls of film, silk-screened with lime green on a T-shirt, in a sparkling cardboard journal splattered with mud. I miss them more than you can imagine.
I feel like I’m being tossed. On spin cycle, with familiar belongings, but feeling at the same time, so alone. Friendships wither in comparison, jokes fall meaningless to a tiled hallway floor. But yet, I’ve discovered I am not alone.
Sometimes I fold the wash. I play a matching game with the socks, bribed by the promise of the $.05 reward each one entails. Sometimes I find a mismatched pair, unfamiliar brands or styles. Thick ones that are deemed "discards" in my own home. I turn them inside out, looking for evidence, and find that they are yet another souvenir.
This happens every year. We come home, laden with craft projects, and pillowcases decorated in pen, to find that we are traveling with more. These are unconsciously inevitable, foreign objects. We end up with pieces of cloth, simple fragments of eachother. Loose socks marked with initials that are not our own.
I find that I have learned to walk a mile. Through Massachusetts, New York, Europe and Iowa. Covering distance. Shuffling softly across a promise, one of phone calls and birthday cards. Getting around to a reunion.
I have learned to see the world through their eyes. Learned to live with their giggles and whispers, tears and frustrated shouts echoing in the back of my mind. But most of all, I’ve learned to walk a mile, not in another’s shoes, but in their socks.
i LOVE aleah starr
1) i was thinking about laundry
2) everyone who has been to camp should read this
3) i needed a place to save it
Walk a Mile
LW, AS, BE, SG, RJC, NM, SB, JS, KS, DK, SM, JS, AH, JH, BB,
Aleah Starr English Seminar
There are many things that I have left behind. They’re hazy now, covered in mud or hidden under a layer of dust. I cannot find a pair of shorts, three root beer flavored dum-dums, a stuffed Menorah and a box of tacks. A string of paper dreidels, a dishroom record to beat, my retainer, and hopefully an impression.
There are things I brought away with me. Souvenirs of a summer.
These are the things you cannot pack in a trunk. Things that would never fit, even when you hurl your weight against the hinges. These belong to sight and smell…the scent of soggy gloves, the musty Grotto couch, dying fish, and 409. The sounds of a water balloon hitting its mark, steady rain, an echo in an empty bathroom, gravel ground beneath a tire, the steady rebounding of hail. Giggles in the dark. We were raw with youth and hope and love and disinfectant.
There are the things one cannot really grasp. The things I’ve learned to do, and learned to love. Being able to determine the fluid that leaks from a car. An undying passion (and appreciation) for Clorox Wipes. The world’s best friends.
And then there are the things you bring home in your laundry bag. They catch you by surprise, as you sit folding the first immense load of wash. They never get mentioned because they are, in fact, unmentionables.
There are many things that mark a family, and I’d have to say, the communal folding of laundry is one of them. We bond, taking a break from sanitization, over caps of detergent and sheets of Bounce. Quietly folding trust between the layers of clothes.
We face a challenge. We stuff ourselves into a cabin, trying to shake the horrible mantra of leaving for home, lives apart under separate roofs. Washing machines spinning without a trace of eachother. We shove our wardrobes into two sacks, one for darks and one for lights. Jumbled together.
I’ve brought pieces of these bunkmates home with me. On multiple rolls of film, silk-screened with lime green on a T-shirt, in a sparkling cardboard journal splattered with mud. I miss them more than you can imagine.
I feel like I’m being tossed. On spin cycle, with familiar belongings, but feeling at the same time, so alone. Friendships wither in comparison, jokes fall meaningless to a tiled hallway floor. But yet, I’ve discovered I am not alone.
Sometimes I fold the wash. I play a matching game with the socks, bribed by the promise of the $.05 reward each one entails. Sometimes I find a mismatched pair, unfamiliar brands or styles. Thick ones that are deemed "discards" in my own home. I turn them inside out, looking for evidence, and find that they are yet another souvenir.
This happens every year. We come home, laden with craft projects, and pillowcases decorated in pen, to find that we are traveling with more. These are unconsciously inevitable, foreign objects. We end up with pieces of cloth, simple fragments of eachother. Loose socks marked with initials that are not our own.
I find that I have learned to walk a mile. Through Massachusetts, New York, Europe and Iowa. Covering distance. Shuffling softly across a promise, one of phone calls and birthday cards. Getting around to a reunion.
I have learned to see the world through their eyes. Learned to live with their giggles and whispers, tears and frustrated shouts echoing in the back of my mind. But most of all, I’ve learned to walk a mile, not in another’s shoes, but in their socks.
i LOVE aleah starr