When peter was little he used to watch his mother hang laundry upon a hill. She would dye long rolls of fabric and hang them in the trees to dry. Peter would sit in the tall tattered grass and look at the clothes. He could sense sorrow in every man's clothing. With Mr. Lawward's crisp shirts it was the sorrow of indifference. With Mr. Charles the memories of his lovely lost wife were exposed to Peter through stains and small holes. With Mr. Robinson, the nightmares of battlefields and dead comrades all folded into his wrinkled sleeves. Peter saw these all, and the faces of people long gone.
He grew up slowly, and began to wash his clothes like his mother had washed the town's. On the day his wife died he took his clothes to the laundry mat so no one would see his memories and nightmares as the fabric dried.