The sound of the rain & the cool breeze across my face transports me to my then, second rental property in a suburb called Petersham. Walking onto the few dry bricks between the back door & the laundry. Walking barefoot to do grown up things; like check you have enough clean underwear for the next day at work. You try to honestly determine whether those clothes that may have been marinating in your washing machine should be ok, even though they smell a little funny, or could they possibly be washed again? It’s incredible that the most mundane of tasks can provide a direct link to a younger you. I slam the door of the washer & await the sound of the water starting to rush in. As it starts, the sound of the rain washes in again, only much louder this time. The sounds struggle at first before my ears tune in & accept them as one new sound. My concentration drifts as I step into darkness & I’m walking out the back door of the old house.
My feet are cold but it’s ok. I’m content in processing that this is really Summer & the rain, if the humidity drops, could be a cool cool change. A guitar amp is humming. It’s not turned off yet as I’d promised myself to continue practicing, even in the rain. This, though housemates joked of electrocution & waters divined. I glance around, there is rust forming on each corner of the small bar fridge & the old dryer peeling paint at my feet. No one came out here much, except to visit me. I didn’t feel like it was just my place, but I felt happy here. An ornately half lit caged-in laundry-come-lock-up. A glorified shed or shelter, if you will. The feeling I felt both then & now, was of stepping out from a house that holds its heat & into the weather we’d been hiding from. As I stare, trying to remember the difference in smell, from place to place, the memories merge like one.
Besides the odd drop of rain atop the head, you’d feel mostly safe & dry out here. It’s not so much de ja vu as a familiar feeling being out here each time. It’s like in dreams, as such, I do not mind what I am doing, but am I’m happy doing it? Like never before. I enjoy the shift from inside to out but it’s time to go inside. I asses the washing that is not quite wet and far from dry as i pile it into the dryer, “Is it clean now?” I still wonder. It’s not the laundry that connects the moments but the feeling. I am truly happy. When you are happy it’s important to remember other comparable times. To stop & smell the roses, as they say.
This is the love we wondered about.
The younger you smiles and says, “See, I told you so.”
The now you smiles to say, “I’ll promise to try & not forget.”