The Laundry Room

People won't believe this, but it's the truth. My favourite room in my house is the laundry room. It's quiet and private, really the only spot in the house to hide. It's even better than a bedroom to hide in, as that's where people will look for you first. But the laundry room? No one thinks to look there. It doesn't even cross their minds.
I guess now you're wondering, "Who are you hiding from?". The answer is no one. I suppose I like the solitude. I can just sit and be still. No serious conversations, or even silly chats. No tv or radio to distract me. Just me sitting with my thoughts in the laundry room.
The room itself is not remarkable in any way. Just a small little rectangle shaped room with two doors. One door to the garage and one to the house. There's an ironing board, a washer and dryer, and a little table for the sewing machine to sit on. The fuse box to my right, mugs boxes and Christmas ornaments to my left. Spill over from the house, too nice for the garage. It is my in-between place where my imagination can roam.
There are many thoughts that go through my head as I daydream here. Fuelled by the quiet scene that comes from the solitary window. Dreams about the future. Some are about the little house on a quiet road where my unborn children will one day play. To be a bird and sit on a telephone wire and look at the world through a bird's view. Memories of winters scenes, spring showers, summer heat and autumns many colours.
Many visions and flights of fancy pass through this little room. But the present is always near. Living on the other side of a door. It comes through the cracks of the door, and is reflected upon too. War, movies, music and the mundane are examined.
It's so peaceful, just the creaking furnace and leaky tap for my company. A pen scratching along a page. Each breathe and small sigh of contentment. A pause here and there, where everything seems still.
The sun comes out and dances in the puddles from a recent rain. The neighbour's drive home and all around the little room, life goes on. But inside time slows; almost stops. Except for inside my head where many imaginations fly by. Maybe this room, thought meant for cleaning clothes, is really a gateway to the world where adventures really do happen.
The heavy scent of warm stew makes its way into the room, and I know I must soon leave my quiet refuge and enter back into the busy world. But the laundry room waits; empty, waiting for me to come back.