My dryer is broken. It has been broken long enough that I cannot wait for the repairman. I am doing the laundry, and hanging it out to dry.
As I look at the product of my labor - the shirts and socks hung neatly in a row, clothespins like small plastic stems, I realize this scene is foreign to me. I am used to piles, not neat lines. There is order, structure, and yes, I dare to say it, beauty in the expression of wet laundry.
Perhaps I am thinking fondly of the owner whose clothes I have washed, of the years and memories we have shared. Maybe I am aware and appreciative – in a different way – of the work he does as he wears those socks and t-shirts.
Now I am off to sweep the kitchen floor. Who knows what expression I will find there?