I used to buy a coffee for the lady folding my laundry at the laundrette until the owner told me,
She doesnt work here. She comes to remember.
Lad, this shirts folded with care, not with haste, she gently scolded me once.
I believed she was the most dedicated employee in the world. Id leave coins on the table, but she never took them.
All she accepted was a cup of coffeethat was enough for her.
Only when I learned why she touched strangers shirts with such devotion did I realise that ironing can be the purest act of love.
I hate doing laundry. Im single, twenty-eight, and my life is a constant race against the clock. Every Sunday I drag my bag of dirty clothes to the little laundrette round the corner, toss everything into the machine in a tangled heap, stare at my phone while I wait, then dump the creased mess right back into my bag.
Ill sort it out at home, I lie to myself.
But two months ago, I met Miss Agnes.
A petite, elderly lady with snow-white hair and a tartan apron. Every Sunday, she was there. Id watch her draw clothes from the driersnever her ownfolding them with army precision, but with grandmotherly tenderness.
Her fitted sheetsperfect corners, not a single wrinkle.
Socks, matched in tidy pairs.
Shirts, pressed flat with her palms as if they were fine silk.
One Sunday she saw me wrestling a twist of bedsheet.
Step aside, lad, she nudged me gently. Youre making a right pigs ear of it. Thats not how you do it.
In two swift motions, she shaped it into a proper, neat rectangle.
Wow, I said, honestly impressed. Youre an artist. What do you charge to do the lot?
She laughed.
No charge, love. But if you get me a coffee from the machine, two sugars, thats a deal.
That became our ritual.
I washed. She folded.
And as she did, shed slip little lessons about life in among her tips for laundry.
Never mix towels with your delicates. Towels are roughcan ruin the fabric. Same with people: you must choose your company.
This shirtits collars gone limp. Needs starching. If you dont give yourself backbone, no one else will respect you.
I supposed she worked there, just lending a hand. Left money, always refused.
Leave it for the next person who needs soap powder, shed say.
Last Sunday, she was absent.
My clothes sat, forlorn and crumpled, in the dryer. I went to the office and found Mr. Harris, the owner.
Mr. Harris, wheres Miss Agnes? Is she off today?
He looked puzzled for a moment.
Miss Agnes? The lady in the apron?
Yes. She always folds everyones laundry.
He gave a sad smile.
Son Agnes has never worked here.
What? Shes here every Sunday
She is. But only because she wants to be.
He told me everything.
Agnes lives in the flat above. A year ago, she lost both her husband and her only son in a motorway accident. Both were lorry drivers. For forty years, she washed and pressed their uniforms. Kept her men the smartest on the road.
When they died, she was left with no one to care for. She stopped eating, withdrew into silence.
Then one day, she came down and asked just to sit in the laundrette.
The smell of softener calms me, she said.
The sound of the machines drowns out the quiet of my empty home.
She started helping young people like me. At first, she accepted pay. These days, she only asks to feel warm cotton in her hands once morejust wants to care again.
I was speechless.
I thought I was buying her cheap coffee,
but she was letting me fill a voidfor a son and a husband she could no longer reach.
She folded my clothes as if they belonged to her own.
I went upstairs and knocked.
Agnes answeredshe had a cold.
Sorry, lad I couldnt come down today. Was it a disaster with your clothes?
Im not here about my laundry.
Id brought a brand new white cotton shirt and a professional steam ironbought with three monthly payments.
Ive brought you work, I said quietly. Ive got an important meeting, and I need to look sharp. No one presses a collar like you. Will you show me how? Ill make the coffee.
Her eyes lit up.
Come in, lad. That shirts delicate. It deserves respect.
We spent the afternoon ironing.
She smoothed the fabric, but she was smoothing her spirit too.
Now, I dont go to the laundrette just to do my washing. I go to learn.
And Ive realisedthere are people in this world with so much untapped love inside them, they need only the smallest of tasks to give it.
Miss Agnes doesnt fold clothes.
She folds loneliness, until it looks presentable.
What do you thinkcan cooking, ironing, caring ever be a language of love? For some grandmothers, its the only way to say, I love you.
Loneliness heals when were needed.
If you know an elderly person living alone, ask them for help or advice.
Sometimes, thats the best medicine of all.
