Socks: 2, 365, 796 Theresa: 0

Folding laundry is a task in which
my soul will take some delight.
Sharp creases and perfect folds
can make my heart sing.

The scent of soap and fabric softener
tend to tickle my nose like the sweetest perfume.
A quick cuddle of a dryer warmed towel
takes me back to cuddles with my childhood dog.

Still, there is always an underlying feeling
of dread, of impending doom.
Folding laundry comes with the task
of folding socks.

Folding socks is a task in which
my soul will take no delight.

In fact, folding socks
is the bane of my existence.
Five years of university, and still,
the socks always manage to outsmart me.

One is always missing,
having wandered off on an important journey without my knowing.
Ten or more are inside out,
showing a streak of anarchy, rebels without a cause.
One or two always have a hole,
having lived a life of tumble dry on high for far too long.

Each and every laundry day
there is a glimmer of hope behind my dread.
Maybe this will be the day
that all socks behave.
All journeys are called off until further notice;
All rebels found their cause in my hamper;
All threads hold out for one more ride on high.

This day has yet to come.
The socks are still winning.