I heard them before I saw them. Three distinct giggles. In the direction of the corner laundromat, there they were.
Three girls. Ten, eight, six, maybe. Dressed for the day. Hair pulled up with bright barrettes and beads. Ready for the day.
It was six o’clock in the morning.
Each carried a large black plastic bag probably warm with just-folded laundry. Each had an ear to ear grin to accompany the giggling. The black pick-up truck parked in a corner of the lot was where they followed their grown-up to. Bags in the bed, they hopped up on to the back seat, lowered the windows and were gone.
I still hear their laughter. They make me hope. For them, for me.
That I can learn to greet the day with that kind of smile and laughter even if the load is a little heavy or a lot inconvenient. That I can do what needs to be done and move on. That I can show my best self to the world when I would really rather not get out of bed.
When I think about pushing on and through and over, those three girls are the film running through my head. I play it loudly to hush out anything else that might interfere. Because there will always be interference. It’s where you focus your vision that plays on and embeds.