You still have the blue basket. The plastic one with the crack in the side, the one we used to put over our head and be a turtle. It is full of shirts now. Grown-up shirts, the soft gray kind, all the same.
I climbed inside it once and made you push me down the hall. It was a boat. It was a race car. It was a rocket, one time, and the carpet was space.
Now you carry it on your hip and stare at your phone while the machine spins, and you sigh a little, like it is heavy. It is not heavy. It is a rocket. Did you forget it is a rocket?
I think you fold the shirts very carefully. That part is nice. You make the sleeves match up and you stack them so neat, and I never once did that, and Mom always yelled.
Can I ask you something? When you are done, and the basket is empty, do you ever put it over your head? Just to see. Just for a second.
You could.
Nobody would even know.