Forgiveness

Doing laundry
is not an event.
It is a cycle.
Like menstruation.
Or the rising
and falling
of tides.
Or the gradual lengthening
and shortening
of days
as spring
turns to summer
turns to fall
turns to winter
turns once again
to spring.

I no longer say
that I am finished
with the laundry,
for a cycle
is never finished.
There are only phases
without a conclusion.
The phase
when the hampers are full.
The phase
when the towel load
is still sitting in the dryer
from last week.
The phase
when the clean clothes
are piled in the basket
and overflowing
onto the bedroom floor.
And my favorite phase—
a holiday
in the laundry calendar—
when all of the clean clothes
and towels
and sheets
have been neatly folded
and put away,
and I do not have to dig
to find a clean pair
of underwear.

Cleaning of any kind
is never
complete.
The dirt always
accumulates
again.

Perhaps this is why
I appreciate the rhythm
of joining with others
week after week
in an act
of communal repentance.
Naming our brokenness.
Admitting our guilt.
Hearing again
the words
of absolution.

Perhaps this is why
I make my way south
each Lent
to a quiet country church,
where,
beneath galleries
that once held
the enslaved,
an old friend
hears my confession.

So that all of the dust
and dirt
that has gathered
within me
in this last phase
can be washed away,
and I can rest
for a moment
as though 
the laundry
is done.

Copyright 2021
Diana E. Carroll