the laundromat

the first time listening in the presence of three generations, I listened to them talk....

 

A rusty table, slightly askew from age and use, gently wobbling to and fro as I sit, quarters clanking on the metal top in front of me.  Placed oddly in front of the large picture window, with nothing but industry to stare back at me.  Smoke piling atop itself from furnaces atop every building, steam billowing from the dry cleaners shops, exhaust from the cars racing through lunch hour.  Its a scene not unseen, day to day, the hustle and bustle of life in the city.  It dulls my attention and thus brings my mind back inside to the rusty metal table I sit at.  What I witness outside is nothing special, certainly nothing new, and never anything exciting.  Three other mismatched tables huddle by my own, in a most unorganized fashion.  Another metal table, in a bit worse shape than mine and a small wooden one, with white upholstered chairs, albeit, much more inviting I prefer to stay at my small rusty table.  There is noise of washing machines washing and dryers drying in the background amidst an odd compilation of jazz music, playing ever so softly.  It's almost soothing, but not what I expected to hear at a shop this side of town.  I supposed looks really can be decieving.  The strong scent of downy and bounty fill the room, almost nauseating me, if not for the sickness in my body that seems to dismantle much of my senses for the moment.  Soft fluorescent lights flicker above my head, but all these sights and sounds seem to dim to the conversation taking place to my right.  At the small wooden table beside me sit two older women.  By looks alone, I could conclude that there are just neighbors, quite obviously friends, chatting the afternoon away while waiting for the intimate cycle to finish with thier silk under things.  A closer observation leads me to believe they are in fact mother and daughter, waiting possibly for the same thing, but they have a more intimate relationship that just friends, as most relatives allow.  Talking about politics, the weather so strange and cold, how neither of them like this time of year, the ozone and God of all things.  A few trips up and down to check my own blanket, I listen to the lucid and detailed conversation they have.  Never skipping a beat, or pausing for a moment to ponder.  Once sentence bleeds off the last and though they jump through strange hoops of topics, each one seems to perfectly flow into another.  Thier opinions dont match, yet dont clash, thier beliefs different, yet understood.  I imagine that comes with the comforts of time, comforts with eachother.  A prize awarded for the work of still being a family so many years later.  A sense of pride fills my soul as I watch these women build on a relatioship they've had the last half century.  I smile and look off into the distance, watching the clouds roll by, and think how blessed I am to be sitting here listening to my mother and grandmother talk, and know one day, that will be me, sitting at a table somewhere, talking with my mother.  The things we take for granted so easily today can be taken so quickly.  Family, a small trinket to some, the world to others.

Reviews

[Susan S.]

I am really impressed by this story. Sure there are bits and pieces that i could pick at--mostly typos--but the picture that it paints is vivid and compelling. I had that relationship with my mom. I never did think of it as trivial, but I know some who would. I congratulate you on impressing me. It aint easy! :)

Susan S.