First published in February, 2019 in The Conclusion Magazine
The yellowed sink drain swallowed the dirty grey rinse water like a person stranded in a desert would drink from an oasis. Gulp after gulp as the young man squeezed the clothes. Water ran down his arms and onto the floor. Giving one final twist and squeeze, he dropped the garments into the now-empty basin and turned to the laundry line strung across his modest kitchen. Heat shimmered off of the ancient potbelly stove as he stepped around his cracked kitchen table toward the line of clothes. He reached up and pulled a shirt and sock down, feeling the crispness of the fabric. It was a quality of the heat, the young man thought. Clothes came out crisper, like they had been starched. It made folding easier, so he was always careful to hang clothes a certain way.
As he worked to fold the shirts and undergarments, he heard the cry of a hawk outside. The weather was still cold but starting to warm; the Swainson’s Hawks in the area were now on the hunt. He sat for a moment and looked out the window, just able to catch glimpses of the hawks as they dove to catch field mice. After watching the birds hunt for their breakfast, he resumed his laundry chore. His breakfast would wait until he had those other clothes on the line. He counted the items, stacking each sock and folding each shirt. His pants were in the sink, the remains of the rinse water slowly dribbling towards the drain. He paused folding to shake out the clothes. Keeping them balled up would hold more of the water, he thought to himself.
After a few minutes, he took the stack of folded garments and stowed them in the dresser, undergarments in the top drawer, shirts in the second. He glanced at the bed and wondered if he should wash the sheets. It had been two weeks, but he decided he had enough laundry to deal with for now. The sheets can wait, he muttered as he turned back towards the warmth of the kitchen. As he passed the sink, he grabbed a small pot and filled it with water. He placed the pot on top of the potbelly stove. While the water heated, he picked up his mug and gave it a quick rinse before shaking a pinch or two of loose tea in. He didn’t have a strainer, but he didn’t really need one. When the cup was done, he would pretend he was a fortune teller, reading the tea leaves.
Setting the cup aside, he reached into the basin and grabbed the first item he felt. He hauled up a heavy pair of work jeans. He thought about hanging them across the line, pinning the legs so they dried straight. Glancing at the clothes peeking out from the sink, he thought better and hung them by the waist. Then a towel, one of only three he had, was draped across the line. After a few minutes, the line was sagging with the weight of the wet clothes. The young man glanced over at the pot and saw the water was almost completely boiled away. He quickly grabbed the pot and poured the last of the water into his cup. The pot handle burned his hand, but he was used to it. He often burned his hand, he was very clumsy. At least, that is what his father said the day he left.
The sting and smell of hot metal on skin brought back other odors as well. The stench of stale sweat, and years of cigarettes filled his mind, as did the acrid sting of burning hair and skin, and the constant smell of anger. And fear. Above all others, the smell of anger and fear permeated his thoughts, dominating his consciousness for a fleeting moment before he shook his head. His thoughts returned to the moment.
He put some cool water into the tea, watching the leaves swirl as the color danced in the cup. He sat on the floor and held the cup with both hands as the steam rose upward carrying the faint aroma of bergamot. The scent reminded him of his mother. She always had a cup of earl grey nearby. The leaves in his cup settled under his gaze, sensing his sadness. This was near the last of his mother’s tea. Stale, weak with the small pinch he allowed himself. He put the cup aside and felt his eyes welling up. Slight tears began to fall from his eyes, leaving shining tracks on his young cheeks. He hadn’t cried since the last time his father called him clumsy. His father won’t be calling him that anymore, he thought. The young man looked around at the few things his father had left behind. Cheap table, a few dishes, and lots of empty memories. The smell of his sweat and cigarette smoke still lingered, as did the pungent stench of his departure. The police had ruled it accidental. His clumsiness was, after all, common knowledge.