I was out riding and meditating after dark tonight, testing my memory by recalling things I hadn’t recalled in a long while, when suddenly I got hit with a very potent shadow of a memory. An open door, a slider door, a light on inside, and a strong smell of laundry. But kind of wet, sick laundry…if that makes any sense. It took me a while to source it, but I did finally.
It was North Carolina, 2003. My brother and I had moved down there and started new lives, and one of the only good friends I made down there was this very kind woman my own age- though she was very large, not fat, but tall and stocky and had a huge afro of curly hair for a white woman. She dated black guys exclusively, so we were never romantic, but she invited me into her home, and her family’s home- I spent most holidays with her grandma, brother, etc- at their old house in the swamp south of Wilmington.
We would visit at night, at her apartment complex, her friend’s, or mine- chatting, watching movies, smoking outdoors in between- out the slider door, right next to the laundry vent. I’ll never forget the feeling I had that night, one of the first we hung out. Like after hurtling myself across the country into the dark and the cold, I felt like I finally found a taste of the maternal comfort I left behind with my family, back in my hometown. It was extra potent late at night, in the smell of tumbling laundry.
She was kind of my mom-away-from-home, which mattered a lot to a 21 year old kid. Even though we were the same age, she had that maternal kindness and softness that I always find familiar, and find myself drawn to for purposes of comfort. I feel like I haven’t felt the presence of that, or any warm embrace of any kind, for many many years. I remember the world always to be cold, and even though it’s largely by choice- the fact that I haven’t physically encountered any little pockets of warmth I could claim just for me makes everything feel just a little colder still.
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