i always sat
in those uncomfortable
laundromat chairs,
savoring a small pack of fig newtons
because i’d only get them
on laundry day.
i associated their sweet taste
with the sounds of clothes
spinning in the machine,
and a large neon green box
of powdered detergent
my mother would always bring

the first time i ever told a boy
that i loved him,
i was five.
i was sitting in the laundromat
with an empty package
of fig newtons crumpled in my fist.
the boy (who was my neighbor)
sat across from me,
fidgeting with a toy
he had just purchased
for twenty-five cents
from an ancient machine.
it was then that i had the courage
to let the three forbidden words
roll off my tongue
and into the space between us.
looking back now, i think,
maybe it was the sense of comfort—
the whirring of the washing machines,
the big box of soap,
the wrinkled wrapper
in my right hand.
it was the sense of familiarity
that convinced me
that if i loved him,
nothing would change.

the day i confessed my love,
the boy cackled, laughing at me.
and though i didn’t show it,
i was feeling a little blue.
i remember the boy leaving,
and me waving goodbye,
the fig newtons wrapper
falling from my grasp
and into the trash bin in front of me.
i remember my parents
telling me it was time to go,
a bag of clean clothes
in the arms of my father,
and a green container
of powdered soap
with my mother.
from the backseat of our car,
i watched as we drove
out of the parking lot,
the laundromat slowly
becoming smaller.

the memory now
saddens me,
knowing we haven’t
washed our clothes there since,
and that it’s been just as long
since a fig newton
has touched my lips.