Quiet Connections

I used to think courage was loud. That it had to announce itself with grand gestures and bold

declarations. Then I met Sarah at the laundromat on Maple Street every Tuesday morning

at nine. She always folded her clothes the same way. Shirts first,

then pants, socks paired and rolled into tiny bundles. I noticed because

I was there too, week after week, washing the same load of darks, avoiding my empty

apartment for as long as possible. My divorce had left me hollow. I'd wake up reaching

for someone who wasn't there anymore. The laundromat became my refuge because at least there,

the spinning cycles gave me something to watch besides my own thoughts. One Tuesday,