Clean Laundry
I shuffle my feet down Avenue A after a quiet morning of people watching at Tompkins Square Park. The brisk October wind and warmth of the dimmed sun collide just right to carry an unmistakable scent to my nose – the bouncy fragrance of your old laundry detergent. My heart sings with reminiscence and I am transported to a simpler time.
When you switched detergents after moving to New York, the fragrance became an emotional commodity. It lingered in the untouched shirts at the back of your closet and the weighted brown hoodie I refused to wash when you were away at college. The smell was preserved through the cotton sheets in my childhood bedroom, the leather seats in my family’s SUV, and the wooden booths at the diner we’d visit every afternoon that you were home.
I smile to myself. With a sudden ease, I feel close to a stranger who happened to recently wash their shirt. It doesn’t plague me with sadness, but instead, connection. I am reminded of the woven strings that hold the memory of such an ordinary scent. They are stitched into the fabric of my soul – the way I laugh, food I eat, music I listen to, clothes I wear, and people I love. I am reminded of when I was intertwined with you, in a seemingly unbreakable bond. I was embodied by you, and you by me. Now the remnants of our bond only exist in the form of household detergent.
I’m fascinated by the metamorphic nature of unconditional love. It’s a wonderful and unmistakable feeling: the transformation of something ordinary into one of beauty.
I walk down the same block on which I encountered that clean-clothed stranger, but this time, at night. My arms cross over my chest to shield myself from the wind, and my hurried walk is interrupted by a tap on my shoulder. I turn my head to meet your eyes, just as surprised as mine. Out of instinct, we share a perfunctory hug. There is no trace of laundry detergent in your green cargo jacket.
The strings that remain between us are tired and frayed. We talk about our poorly executed Halloween costumes, your full-time job, and that one DJ set at Circoloco last year. The longer I stand there with you, the smaller and more distant you become. The threads between us slowly disintegrate, and I feel the October wind carry me away from you. I float down Avenue A, leaving a trail of stray strings behind me. After months of basking in sweet nostalgia, I am filled with a peaceful sadness. I cannot help but miss the aroma of your laundry detergent. A perfectly contained capsule – unchangeable and imperishable.
