Laundry Girl

Bubbling shells still sleep under the sand. They are making forms between their tight closed rims. White shirts are fluttering.
The laundry girl kept bubbling with her saliva.
She said, “If I tell you my name, are you going to be my mother?”
At the moment, I truly believed that I would have a foster child. But now, I want to put every baby into a large jar, just like a nostalgic letter in a soda bottle floating in the Pacific Ocean.
“Are you telling me the truth?” she asked.
I love children. I promise to hold their hands and pick pieces of dead starfish out of their hair. Our naked necks are burnt under a blazing sunshine and our skin is like ash falling onto flip-flops with tangled seaweed. Keeping a promise is like a shinkansen passing Mt. Fuji. I occasionally pick up and crack the train in half as I roll it in wax paper. It reminds me of individually wrapped caramels in boxes.
She held a piece of caramel until it melted in her hand.
When my Jeepney picked me up, she was like clams caught in a fishing net.
In my mouth, the solid cube sticks to my palette when the officer makes his announcement.
“We apologize for any inconvenience from our train getting lost.”
I gaze at the railroad and smell sludge in a drainage pipe. Just like a pothole on a rainy day, a rat appears. I grasp the bottom of my corduroy jacket’s pocket. Some sea sand digs under my nails.
“When will you come back?” she asked.
There are no bubbles in her basin. The soapy crumbs never dissolved into water. She clicks on the steam irons hanging from the ceiling. Beaded sweat covers her forehead.