The heat has been agonizing. I'm waiting for the ash to settle before venturing out to water the withered sprigs of what used to be the plants in the front yard. Even Frank, the assassin cat, has given up the mole hunt and clawed at the door till I let him in and he collapsed across the tiles, quite the drama queen. The boys have left on their own adventures for the evening and I'm planning on taking in the holiday snap and crackle from the comfort of a porch cushion with a glass of wine.
I found myself mulling over the dirt in life this afternoon. As I massaged the oxyclean paste into the stains on Sawyer's work shirts, I thought of the story they tell. The paint on my dresses, Brennan's ink-spattered pants, the grease on Jason's shorts from last weekend when he changed the breaks. If you unwound the stains, you'd likely know the how and perhaps the why of the day. And so I started working on an idea that I've been considering for over a year now. Here is how it begins....
The world can be a dirty place. Life is a
disheveled attempt at writing a novel; a series of chapters that despite a valiant
endeavor to choose wisely, often end up unkempt, the edges stained, corners in
disarray. These lives have closets. Darkness behind doors locked tight with chains
woven from the expectations of others and the albatross of our own unfulfilled
dreams. However, there is a place of absolution. Where the grime of life can be
exonerated, the sullied cleansed, the defiled disinfected. Kneeling is often involved and money exchanged in return for untidy forgiveness. Music echoes through metallic
speakers and baskets are passed; lives splayed out for the prying eyes of strangers
to consume, a foul feast. Welcome to the laundromat.
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