laundry

you must remember how the fabric hung on the line:
                        blood-stained sheets folding over the wire
                        like damp and heavy butterfly wings
                        coiling backwards into cocoon-hood.
you must remember how the nylon would stretch:
                        between our hands in a tightened pull.
                        before we draped it over the others.
you must remember her plaid blouse swinging in the breeze:
                        as though it were trying
                        to escape from the wire
you must remember her lace nightgown gently dancing:
                        with the little pink flowers,
                        how they were like voices in our heads
                        reminding us of when
                        she would bend down and play.
you must remember the smell of the soap:
                        how it mixed with cigarettes
                        and freshly cut grass.
i know that the soap is what you remember most,
                        but describing a scent
                        is like describing a dream:
                        its vivid and pungent memory
                        impossible to recount to others
and this is why you must remember
                        everything else.

Olivia Loccisano is a Dramatic Arts, Photography and English teacher from Toronto, Canada. She is inspired by imaginary realism and how young women and children navigate the strange realms of the world through their own imaginations and rituals.