May Fifteen. Jennifer Lugris, 2019.
When I was a child, I used to watch my parents stack receipts on a paper holder spike at their dry
cleaning business. My daycare consisted of a large bin where I sat among piles of clothing, waiting
to be sorted through, separated, and cleaned. As I organize and sort through these piles, I sort
through thoughts, questions, and concerns about my daughter. May fifteenth. May fifteenth is her
due date and the day that will change my life forever. I wonder what kind of person I am holding
inside of me. “Will she be a tomboy? A girly girl? A leader? A follower? A feminist? An activist?
Will we fight? Will she hate me? Will I love her more than my husband? Will she be neat or
messy? Responsible or trouble?” Sifting through clothing has become a meditative way of
reflecting and tuning in to my fears, anxieties, and worries. Piles of used clothing measure time,
as the residue of a person that once occupied them is left behind to be discarded. What kind of
residue will my daughter leave behind? What kind of residue will I leave behind as her mother?
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