The Weight of Bread and Copper

The laundromat air smells of bleach and wet pennies. I trace the green enamel cup on the counter, its lip cool against my thumb. The door handle, shaped from a chunk of white bread, yields with a soft squish when I pull it. You stand there, wearing my faded navy hoodie, your knees scraped raw from a fall I remember never having. You speak my name, the sound a perfect echo from a cooler metal bin. My sister, small, with the knees you just scraped, leans around my elbow, her fingers brushing the damp metal of the washing machine door. She is exactly eight years old. The fluorescent bulbs hum a steady, tired note.