I used to buy a coffee every Sunday for the old lady folding my shirts at the launderetteuntil the owner once told me,
She doesnt work here. She simply comes to remember.
Lad, that shirt is folded with care, not speed, she once chided me, gently.
For weeks, I thought she was the most devoted employee in all of London. Id sometimes leave a few pounds on the table, but she never touched it.
All she ever accepted was a coffee from the vending machinethat was enough.
When I learned why she touched strangers clothes with such gentle devotion, I realised that pressing a shirt can be the purest act of love there is.
I despise doing laundry. Im not married, Im 28, and my life constantly feels like a race against the clock. Every Sunday, I lug a bag of dirty washing to the self-service launderette at the end of my street in Islington. I dump the load in, scroll endlessly on my phone, and when its over, I ball it all up, take it home, and tell myself Ill fold it latera lie every week.
But about two months ago, everything changed when I met Mrs. Edith.
A small, elderly lady, snowy-haired, always sporting a tartan apron. Shed be there every Sunday, expertly emptying clothes from the tumble dryers and folding them with swift precisionbut with such grandmotherly tenderness.
Her fitted sheets always ended up with razor-sharp edges.
Sockspaired, never lost.
Shirtssmoothed with her palms as if they were precious silk.
One Sunday, she caught me wrestling hopelessly with a fitted sheet, already knotted in a wad.
Out of the way, lad, she said, nudging me aside. Pitiful sight, that. Youre doing it all wrong.
With two swift flicks, the sheet was transformed into a perfect rectangle.
Blimey, I breathed. Youre an artist. How much do you charge to do the lot?
She laughed.
I dont take money. But get me a coffee from that machinetwo sugarsand well call it quits.
So that became our weekly ritual.
Id return, laundry in tow. Shed fold, offering scraps of life wisdom disguised as laundry advice.
Never wash your towels with your delicates. A towels too roughitll ruin the fabric. Same with people, you know. Youve got to choose your company carefully.
This shirts got a limp collar, my dear. Needs a bit of starch. Without structure, nobody takes you seriously.
I always assumed she worked therea staff member, surely.
Id leave spare change. Shed tuck it away each time.
For the next young lad who cant afford powder, shed say.
Last Sunday, she was gone.
My clothes tumbled out, wrinkled and forlorn.
I went to the little back office and found Bill, the owner.
Mr. Bill, wheres Mrs. Edith? Is she off today?
He looked at me with a mix of confusion and pity.
Mrs. Edith? The old gal with the apron?
Yes, sir. The one folding everyones clothes.
Bill gave me a sad smile.
SonEdith doesnt work here. Never has.
What? But shes here every Sunday.
Aye. She comes because she wants to.
He told me everything.
Edith lives in the flat upstairs. Last year, she lost both her husband and her only son in a motorway accident. Both drove lorries. For forty years, she washed and pressed their uniforms, took pride in keeping her men the smartest on the road.
After they passed, she had no one left to care for. She stopped eating. Sunk into silence.
Then, one day, she came downstairs and simply asked to sit among the whirr of the machines.
The scent of fabric softener makes me feel calm, she told Bill.
And the hum of the dryers drowns the quiet in the flat.
She started helping young folk like me. At first, she accepted payment. Soon, she refused.
I just want to feel warm cotton in my hands again. I want to care for someone, even for a moment.
I was speechless.
Id thought I was buying her a cheap coffee.
She was giving me her need to be a mother, a wife.
She folded my shirts as if they belonged to her own son.
This time, I ventured upstairs and knocked at her door.
Edith answered, snifflywith a cold.
Sorry, lad, I couldnt quite manage it today. Are your shirts terribly crumpled?
Im not here because of the shirts.
Id gone out and got a crisp, new white shirt and a proper steam iron on credit.
I brought you some work, I said. Ive got an important meeting tomorrow and I want to look sharp. No one does collars like you. Would you teach me? Ill make the coffee.
Her eyes shone.
Come in, lad. This shirts delicate. Youve got to show it respect.
We spent the afternoon pressing.
She wasnt just smoothing cotton;
she was smoothing out her own aching heart.
Now I dont go to the launderette just to do my laundry. I go to learn.
And Ive learned there are people so overflowing with unspent love, all they need is a simple task to give it away.
Mrs. Edith doesnt just fold clothes.
She folds away lonelinessuntil everything is neat and in its place.
I wonderare acts like ironing and cooking a language of love, or just chores?
For some grandmothers, its how they say I love you without using words.
Loneliness lessens when we’re needed.
If you know an elderly person living alone, ask for advice or a bit of help.
Sometimes thats the best remedy of all.
