I head out the door,
knowing they will be there.
They seem to have some kind of strange ability to know when I am there,
and they find me.
The pile is set down and I start my rummaging,
a semi-organized method of trying to hang each person's things in some kind of order
to make the removal and separation process a smidge easier.
They find me there.
Their eyes watch me as if curious as to why I spend so much time doing this strange circling around the metal tree.
We hear a laugh around the house,
a child's voice riding on a bike.
We all turn in that direction,
before I continue with my bend, sort, and pin.
I hold up a shirt with a newly placed hole.
"How did this happen?" I ask the dog.
I realize it is about time for the shirt to retire anyhow,
a situation that seems to happen a lot lately.
"These kids grow fast, don't they?"
I ask either of the two who always responds with the same silent look.
I hang another piece of boy clothing as I look up into the blue sky.
It is just a daily job, this laundry cycle of wear, wash, hang and then put away,
a reminder of memories made and ones still in the threads,
to enjoy the days and the simplicity of moments.
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