This is not my dirty laundry.
This is a linen dress hung from a clothesline, dried by the summer sun. It is left out there too long so it rains, but is dried once more. It is taken down and worn and though the fabric scratches my skin at first, with wear it softens. It was white but now it’s cream. It is more flattering in this shade. Creases mark movement. There are stains from coffee and wine and lipstick and soil. I wash this fabric on a gentle cycle without bleach, perhaps accidentally I use hot water so the stains fade but set, never to be removed again.
I still wear this dress, even with the stains.
This is not my dirty laundry. This is a sign of life. These stains and these creases are my stories.