Laundriad

Hoping your dirty-clothes basket has been empty rather more than full this year. But if not, so what? If life is one long trudge to and from the Kenmore, let it learn us, in this great laundriad of life, the meaning is not found in the scented stack of folded undies at the end, but rather in the cycle and the trudge itself. And when we have seen the soak, the rinse, the awful spin of it, and enter at last the final fluff, can we not look back upon the terrible Tide, though we be bleached, no longer wrinkle-free, and permanently pressed beyond enduring, and say, "At least my socks all matched, and my lint screen is free at last?"