Missing Socks

The dryer has gone off three times.

Possibly four.

At this point the clothes and I are participating in the same cycle.

They cool off.

I remember them.

I turn the dryer back on.

We begin again.

Do you ever get so tired that the idea of going to bed feels completely unreasonable?

Not because you’re busy.

Not because you’re doing anything important.

You simply cannot fathom peeling yourself off the sofa.

The strange thing is that since my sons moved out, I have matched every single sock.

Every one.

For years, socks disappeared with such consistency that I assumed there was some sort of portal inside the dryer.

Now?

Nothing.

Perfect numerical accountability.

Every sock returns home.

Which leads me to conclude that the disappearance of children from a house can, in fact, be measured in missing socks.

I don’t know where they went.

The children, thankfully, I know.

The socks remain a mystery.

Anyway.

The laundry is still in the dryer.

I am still on the sofa.

And if you’re reading this instead of doing whatever you’re supposed to be doing

welcome.

You’re among friends.