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Weekend at the Washing Stone.

Something bit me. I don't think I will turn into Spiderman. With the soap suds entering my swollen pinky finger, I sure felt like I was turning into a washing machine.

Sweat droplets collected on my forehead, and my baby hairs felt like worms crawling down my face. I was out of breath and flattened my palm on the washing stone. I am eighteen years old.

My seventy-seven-year-old grandmother (she's been the same age for four years now) does the same, not out of breath, only with a soft "ish" as she slaps the cloth against the stone like it committed some heinous crime. Maybe it did—the simple act of existing as a dirty cloth.

Weekends were now reserved for me, my clothes, and the room where I washed them. I despised it. Back and forth—back and forth, again and again and again. Then into unsoapy water and again. Then wring it dry with all your might. That’s just one cloth. Now just ten more pieces to go.

As much as I hate it, once it’s done and the clothes aren’t as soaked as I am, there is a sense of relief which is only going to be broken by the next weekend.

Dipping my clothes in water makes my fingers feel weird, wrinkled in a pattern like tree bark. I scrub and scrub, each garment a small victory, but also a reminder of the laborious task. The physical toll is undeniable. My back aches, my arms feel like lead, and my hands are raw from the scrubbing. Yet, in this weariness, there’s an odd sense of accomplishment.

As I finish the last piece, I realize that, despite my complaints, there’s something profoundly grounding about this process. It connects me to generations before me, to my grandmother, and to a simpler way of life. It's a reminder of the value of hard work and the satisfaction that comes from seeing a task through to the end.

In a world dictated by machines, it's just one reminder of the past. People still do this, of course. In this labour, while I dread the coming weekends and the never-ending cycle of dirty clothes, I find gratefulness.


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