ellen grove

sitting on the linoleum quietly watching the
washing machine spin round and
round. the ones in the states don’t have
that concave window and my
four year-old mind couldn’t get
enough of its hypnotic
spinning. quick, then
slow.

i still feel a little entranced just thinking
about that afternoon— the rain hitting the
windowpanes, how that kitchen
always smelled a little sweet. i had my
brand new red wellingtons
on, obsessed with their
black pull handles.

for whatever reason, i recall feeling very
Grown Up, and who knows
what the fuck the rush
was all about.

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