Laundry

There are two droplet-shaped bushes bordering the driveway. The bush on the right is caved in from my fall. I laid there for a while with my boots swinging back and forth over the curb with my initials carved in it. I carved with my finger into the cement when the construction workers' back was turned. Okay he was driving away. 

The lawn is littered with feel good knick knacks only a mom can buy in Wal-Mart's desperate garden section. The red-hatted gnome at the stoop has a chopped off hand - casualty unreported but mom is seeking justice in the form of Hammurabi's code. 

Squirrels made the lonely tree in the front yard home. I know not from firsthand experience but from my dad's urgent reports. LOOK AT THEM. BABY SQUIRRELS IN THE TREE, ANGE. My milk pours over the pink porcelain bowl and onto the table, creeping through the wood's grain. Squirrels slept in our attic last winter and he wasn't as happy.

I grasp the black iron railing leading downstairs. Mom always repeats the tale that I pushed my brother down the stairs when I was six. His legs luckily caught the railing. He hung just above the tipping point. Any kid tries to murder their brother. I wanted to take it back right after my hands left his polo shirt. 

Groaning creeks follow your footsteps downstairs. You have to look down for the laundry tossed overhead. Tshirts and bundled socks. FOLD THE TOWELS WHILE YOU'RE DOWN THERE.

More milk slides out and onto my hands. The white color is lost on impact. 

OKKKKAYYY ALREADY GOD.

I breathe in.

6 hours until mom gets home.

He's listening for my footsteps so I'm forced to fold those scratchy blue towels with bleach age spots. With my eyes closed, I put the wad of towels over my head. Picturing myself drowning in a sea of fresh cotton linens, the newest Martha Stewart line from Khols. 

Good enough.

THESE FUCKING NEIGHBORS PLAYING BASKETBALL ON A MONDAY MORNIN AT 9AM ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.

I know by now no response is required.

The laptop screen sheds light on the wood paneled walls. Some of the edges are wider with black creases spreading and spreading. I wrote song lyrics on the panels in Sharpie 10 summers ago. Hilary Duff was a hit. Slanted heart shapes wishing for more.

The futon cries out for help as I sit down. I grab the edges of a washed out comforter. Ink stains and parting threads. The blue feels so tired. I turn on the Today show.

ARE YOU MAKING YOUR MOM DINNER OR SHOULD I JUST DO EVERYTHING.

I can't see him but I hear his head craning over the railing, facing the bottom of the steps with socks and tshirts and a pillowcase. 

YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. The words could stab the walls and the towels and the socks and tshirts.