The discussion of lost socks in the washer will likely never end, at least not until we learn specifically of that alternate reality where the landscape is littered with stray and unmatched socks. I suppose we'll even find the occasional frilly unmentionable there as well. Will we become friends with the inhabitants of that fair land where no one knows that socks should match, or will we visit ungodly fashion imperialism upon them?
However, today we have gathered not to plot the fashionable overthrow of an imaginary land littered with all those socks we've lost to the laundry elves, but rather to muse upon the foundling item.
Yes, a white wash cloth. It appeared in my load of darks, and I ran it through with the next day's load of whites with the usual dose of generic Food Lion bleach and hot water. Still, it resembles something Noah Poke would have used back in the day when we bathed in the creek and called it clean, probably because the creek was clean then.
The thing is that I do not possess a wash cloth proper except for the two that live in the kitchen where they protect my delicate and oh so sensitive hands from the assault of hot pan handles. One might ask, then, if it's fair to call them wash cloths, and I suspect the answer would be a firm negatory were we to ask said question, which I won't.
More important this day is the question of what to do with this once white wash cloth? Is there a child's face growing dirtier by the day for want of this strip of cotton? Is someone downstairs developing a terminal case of toe jam while I sit here and muse upon their missing salvation? Should I have another spot of coffee and get on with the day, leaving this mysterious cloth in the laundry room where someone more deserving, and perhaps more worthy, to give it a better home?
I'm thinking we'll go with the latter.