The dryer comes to rest with the lapse of its cycle. The clothes, tangled, warm, clean, await the methodical folding and hanging that inevitably follows. The light splashes in on the clothes as the door is pulled open. The inside-out sleeve of a knit polo tangles around the leg of a boot-cut khaki and clings furiously with the aid of static electricity. To the clothes, this is like any other wash. Like all that have taken place previous and all that are soon to come. But the man pulling the clothes out of the dryer knows the truth. The man takes extra care to crease each item. He ensures the seams are in just the right place. The man hangs each item carefully, with care, with an additional precision that is typically lost to monotony. The clothes are unaware of the separation that will come between them and the man. The laundry hangs in the closet, as it always does. Nothing is different. They know nothing of the adventures they are about to miss. But why would a shirt know such a thing? Why would a sock care of lands unexplored?
The clothes are left to hang in the closet. They know nothing of the man's adventures, but the man knows little more.
A bag is packed...
A flight is boarded...
A journey begins...
Peru awaits
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And don't forget to pick me up a couple of garbage bags full of those leaves you were telling me about.
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