I did not plan to cry at the laundromat. Nobody does. It is not a crying venue.
But there I was on 30th Avenue in Astoria, Tuesday evening, watching my clothes spin behind glass like a small domestic television, and something just gave way.
It had been a long week. Work was fine. Life was fine. Everything was fine in the specific way that means it is not. And then the dryer next to mine buzzed and an aunty — Greek, I think, silver hair, gold bangles that would make my nani nod in respect — started folding her towels with this practiced tenderness, corner to corner, smoothing each one flat.
And I lost it. Quietly. Into my own basket of laundry.
Because that is exactly how my mother folds. Corner to corner, palm pressing the crease, like the towel is something worth being gentle with. Nobody in New York folds like that. New York shoves everything into a bag and prays.
The aunty saw me. She didn't ask what was wrong. She just pushed her box of dryer sheets toward me across the folding table, one eyebrow up, and said, "Take. Smells better."
And I laughed while crying, which is my whole personality lately.
Homesickness doesn't announce itself. It ambushes you at the Astoria laundromat between the delicate cycle and the fluorescent hum. It arrives smelling like someone else's fabric softener and looking like your mother's hands.
I folded my clothes corner to corner that night. Slowly. I let the aunty watch me get it right.
We didn't exchange names. We exchanged a fold. In this city, that's practically a marriage.
Be gentle with your towels. Somebody taught you how, and they miss you too.
Love,