dogwood drought

Laundry

The room was dark, grey shadows cast over greyer walls. The only light came from the dying sun outside. She blindly threw out her hand to turn on the lights, she hit the switch of course–she'd been living in that apartment for three years already. Three years with him. Brightness filled the room, momentarily blinding. She cringed and brought her hands up in a late attempt to shield her eyes--she froze, abandoning the motion. There was blood on her hands. His blood. She gagged.

    Any thought of entering the room was tossed to the side as she scrambled to make her way to the bathroom, socked feet slipping on wood floors and leaving her to claw the walls just to keep balance. Slamming her hand on the switch, she steadfastly ignored her own reflection, she could easily imagine how wretched she looked anyway. The water that screamed from the tap was boiling hot, perfect. She scrubbed, skin catching under her nails and hands growing red, no longer from blood but rather rawness.
          Watching the pink-tinged water swirl around to its porcelain demise, she finally broke. Quietly, carefully, she turned off the water and slid down the sink cabinet to sit, knees to her chest and rubbed-raw hands clasped in front of her. She watched in a sort of grotesque fascination as her fingers began to tremble, observing with all the detached interest of a scientist as those tremors spread to her hands and arms. It wasn't long before her entire body was shaking, wracked with near-silent gasps that left even her lungs shuddering, a human earthquake. She found the thought fitting, disaster that she was. With that the sobs turned quickly into ugly, breathless laughs that plagued her for a good five minutes. Her sides began to ache, tears getting caught up above her lip along with a heavy dose of snot.

    Finally, everything stopped. She held out her hand, steady. She stood, gingerly, as though bracing herself for the aftershocks. When they didn't come, she turned off the bathroom lights and began her short trek back to their bedroom, sock feet finding careful traction on wood floors as her fingers trailed along painted walls.
    The light was still on and for a second, just a second, she forgot. There was some already deeply-buried part of her waiting, longing, to hear him singing Queen songs softly and off-key as he worked. And as she stood in the doorway and looked to his empty desk, she felt the loss all over again, duller but ever-present. There was no earthquake this time, only a long, fluttery sigh that felt as though it took everything out of her before returning it once again.

She turned off the light.

    Each step she took toward the entryway felt easier than the last and though carrying the white, unlabeled plastic bag to the laundry room brought an added weight to her shoulders, she was balanced and upright, willing to carry that weight if it meant closure. The light no longer startled her, though she still closed her eyes, not fully willing to embrace the white blindness of it quite yet. It took her another shaky breath to gently open the bag, tears welling up uninhibited as she saw the sweatshirt she had bought him last June, now stained with deep brown blood and cut from the accident.

    It was a ritual in its own right--carefully removing the folded clothes from the bag, remembering when they were bought and who bought them, burying her face in them and desperately trying to find some hint of his shampoo only to be greeted with copper and gasoline. By the time everything was in the machine she was ready. Closing the lid felt both familiar in its normality and completely alien, finality tinging every action. Though she was crying, she didn't feel sad, just a deep ache as she knew she had to let him go. She pushed the button.