On the best days I offer this invisible work, this work so easily undone. So when the memory of sleep is smoothed from beds, when breakfast bowls return to their cupboard I begin the litany of laundry, sadly astonished to see again the hill of clothes slumped in the wicker basket, all their pride gone, their lives inhabiting other garments. And if it’s a good day I lovingly sort dark socks and wadded trousers from the baby’s white t-shirts and his sisters’ pastels. Into the vessel, faithful as a truck, they go, to churn and swirl in their mysterious froth making shapes I cannot see. And after the dryer revives each wet skin I sit and fold these clothes into safety, health, laughter, home.