She married a wannabe Thoreau.

Woke enough to mock Thoreau’s laundry.

Refusing to do much else, he ended up doing most of the family laundry.

Lost his head somewhere between the towels and socks and the broken (again) dryer.

Sometimes mockery belies covetous hearts.

Not one to split the lark, she could have pried loose meanings despite words but refused such violence.

He does only his own laundry now.

Leaving her to the peace of familial adventures to the laundromat.

Women washing at the ponds were never quiet affairs.

Whoever said peace must only be found in silence lacked imagination.

And maybe clean underwear.