By Noah Wanunu, Class of ’27 — Correspondent
I rush back up to the apartment, through ducks and broken glass and up damp elevators, dripping in my rough towel with bristles that scrape my shoulders. My finger struggled to press the button that lit up with a warm orange light that read 4, tapping my feet at the thought of a stranger entering with me. I cross the dirty burgundy tiles, shielding my eyes from the bright sun. I’ve always loved the open, outdoor hallways, rather than sweaty and office-like apartments that are nowhere to be seen down here in Florida.
The key jingles through the doorknob, on par with my shivering body. I am quickly hit with even more cool air as I rid my feet of my dad’s flip flops that don’t quite fit, splashing the remaining chlorine all over the fake plastic floors. Once I stumble into her tiled shower, hot water spreads a wave of serenity through my newly tanned skin, spraying all over the walls of the shower with soap labeled in a language that I cannot read.
My reddened, tired eyes catch her folding each hip towards the back as I sway my towel through my hair, the room with the warm steam of fresh rice and slow cooked beef lingering throughout the air dominated by artificial flower-scented laundry detergent. If only flowers actually smelled that pleasant. Her veiny, warm-toned hands slightly shake with each fold, causing uneven lines and folds, as if she had just missed the instructions of a teacher on the first day, making unnecessary name tags, minus the paper cuts.
My feet crack through the fake wooden floors, my ears bombarded with a mix of Hebrew and Spanish the closer I get to the doorframe missing an actual door, all from my grandfather in his stained white t-shirt I like to lay my head on while he snores through movies. I still have the burning sensation of salty chlorine on my lips.
Like a never ending loop, she’s still folding, even after the clock has shifted 90 degrees and the sunset has gone from pastel to warm shades of orange and red. She pauses only to tuck her blonde hair behind her ears, slightly bending over the fresh sheets on her king-sized bed. I wince at the thought of her back burning in soreness tomorrow.
I’ve brushed my teeth, run around the seemingly thin flooring, dizzied myself around my sister as she remained unbothered and scrolled through her phone, but my grandmother remains constant. No amount of nails echoing and tapping across a screen could shake her focus. Goosebumps race across my arms as the fan whirs on, slowly fading as I sink into the cold mattress and under the worn, ripped blanket.
Above the bed hangs three pictures, one of each child’s wedding. There are books in Polish and my grandfather’s languages under the wide, flat TV. Rusted vases and items that I’m not sure what to call, which could probably today sell for what my grandparent’s once had, lie throughout the cluttered room. Even throughout the visually loud room, my eyes wander only to her fold underwear, like a ghost in the night, swift and smooth. I concentrate on listening to her dense breaths in between. I don’t understand why she puts such a great level of exertion into a chore as fruitless as laundry. My mother shoves underwear straight into the drawer, quickly joining back in on the laughing and squeezing the rosy cheeks of my cousins past their bedtimes.
I don’t have the time to fold underwear. I have essays to write and friends to laugh with, leaving barely enough time to even call after I fly back home. Really, I have only the time to scroll through my cell phone and complain about having things that my grandmother still doesn’t have after decades of hard work.
That humid evening, my grandfather was on his reclining chair, snoring. I knew that because I could hear him panting through the thin popcorn walls.
My grandmother was there folding underwear, calling for him to retrieve the warm cotton.
I was on the bed, watching everyone and everything as I felt my stomach churn at the thought of having to get an education and walk through broad, windowed hallways every day, complaining about the air conditioning being too cold. But most importantly, I emerged myself in guilt, suffocating myself in it even more with every flick of my eyes towards my grandmother and then back to the orange light seeping through the curtains, like orange liquid submerging the itchy cotton, some of the rods scattered slyly near the dusty corners of the room.
Really, I wanted to drown, because I deserved to. I had time to fold the pile of clean clothes, I just didn’t take the time to help. Now I know how to, all because I used to watch like an incapable child, although I was, and take my grandmother’s effort for granted. The truth is that sometimes sinking in guilt rather than hot water and clean sheets is the key to learning how to fold underwear.
Cover image from Openverse: “Day 86: ‘Laundry Night'” by seanmfreese is licensed under CC BY 2.0.