As a child, we lived in an ‘30s house, and my bedroom was in the attic. Every night, my mother would tuck me into bed with a story, ending it with a kiss as she left my room. It was in the attic's expansive space that she often undertook the task of laundry, casting a soft, yellowish glow through my bedroom door's window.

As I drifted into sleep, the ambient sounds of the laundry routine became a refrain. The thuds of clothes being shaken out, the familiar creaks of the old floor beneath her steps, and the hum of the washing machine merging into a comforting sound.

Fast forward to the present, where I am responsible for my own laundry. Folding my dry clothes, shaking out the wrinkles, and listening to the familiar tumbling sound of the washing machine, I am transported back to the time when I was a young girl. The innocence of those moments come flooding back.

In the ordinary act of doing laundry, I rediscover a connection to the time when the world appeared limitless, and every moment held the promise of a new adventure.

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