The Spin Cycle of Life

The Spin Cycle of Life

 Passing the laundromat, I slow to smell the fragrance

of fabric softener and dryer sheets that infuse the warm, moist air

from the vent pipe protruding from the brick wall. My husband finds it sad:

“That’s the smell of people too poor to own a dryer,” he says.

But it makes me happy: To me, it’s the scent of women

who care enough about their families to shlep overstuffed cloth bags

to the laundromat, either slung over their shoulders or balanced on

a stroller or kid’s wagon, and who later expertly fold the dry clothes,

each item into its own perfect rectangle. You can see them

chatting amiably in Spanish at the long, deep Formica counter

behind the big plate-glass window, recently replaced
after an incident outside involving two men and one woman.

 And it occurs to me while the machines rumble, that I have entered

the Spin Cycle of Life. No more for me the Soak, the Power Wash

or even the Rinse. My world now feels as if it’s in the throes of vertigo.

Round and round we go, staggering and nauseated, with wild ups and downs — more Tilt-a-Whirl than Merry-Go-Round — and I’m approaching that moment where the dizzying days I’ve had, understanding nothing but somehow

getting through them all, are about to jerk to a halt and things

(memory, skills, wit, friends, good health) will, by centrifugal force

or force of habit, continue to stay put for maybe

one moment more and then collapse all at once

and thump in a damp, bumpy clump and jumble of relief, regrets and —

with G-d’s grace — gratitude.