At 11:30 am, I placed my favorite clothing items in washer 'A5.' My absolute favorites: ezekiel jacket, lux jeans, brown gap pants, black helly hansen fleece, cow socks and frog pajamas. That is how I describe them, because that is all they are to you. Color, brand names, and a few animal prints.
To me, they go far beyond the labels. The jacket I got at the beginning of summer and have worn everywhere. The jeans sarah got for me for my birthday. The black, half-zip, oh-so-light fleece used to be the basis of my uniform at Starbucks when life was uncomplicated. The pajamas and socks my mom brought to me last september at Spring Creek, even though I really didn't deserve them.
Every article of clothing in that washer had meaning to me. Sarah might as well have been in the washer with them for all the memories tied to her. My sister would kill for that black zip-up. And those stupid brown pants are the only ones my mom seems to approve.
For twelve agonizing minutes, I thought everything was gone.
And suddenly, I cared. I cared not necessarily about the things themselves, but that I was somehow loosing links to my history, the essence of who I am. Everytime I grab that ezekiel jacket, memories flood back of all the other times I've put it on, or someone has taken it off my body. What am I supposed to do if my connection is lost, misplaced, borrowed or stolen? Forget? I don't want to forget.
Back to washer A5. Someone accidentally restarted it.
My clothes were safe inside.
But I didn't discover that until the cycle stopped.
The clothes are now folded and dry, happazardly placed on my bed. My books are disorganized. I haven't a clue where my trash can is and, judging by the mess of candy wrappers on my desk, it's obvious that I need to find it soon.
But I'm beginning to wonder if I should call my mom, to tell her that I love her. Sorry for everything. Thanks for the pajamas and socks. I'll wear those brown pants more often.