The Last Spin

I’ve seen it all — the dirt, the stains, the fresh starts. Day after day, I swirled and tumbled, rinsing away the messes of the world. Socks, shirts, towels, sheets — each one of them a story, a part of someone’s life. I was there through all of it: the spilled coffee, the tears, the laughter. I never complained. It was my job, my purpose.

But now, I feel it. The stillness in the air, the absence of the rhythm I once knew. The family who used to gather here, the hum of their busy lives now silenced. The laundry baskets no longer spill over with clothes to be washed or dried. There are no more small hands pulling at the door, asking, "Is it done yet?"

Tonight, I know. Tonight, the last load will come through. After that The door won't open again. The cycle will end.

I won’t get to spin any more clothes into fresh, clean life. No more warm towels, no more soft shirts to fold. I’ll be unplugged, my drums empty, my filters neglected. And in the quiet, I’ll be forgotten.

But for a moment, as the last load tumbles, I remember the warmth, the rhythm, the satisfaction of a job well done.

I was more than just metal and wires. I was part of their lives. And when I go silent, I’ll carry those memories with me.

Created by Erica Latasha