who is that . . .

we got home late last night. Twenty three hours after we awoke, and this morning, when all I wanted to do was sleep in, I heard them from my nice cozy bed. An ever so faint murmur at first, then a slight rumble. I curiously stepped to the top of the stairs. There was a definite babble from the hallway below . . . somewhere from the vicinity of our unpacked luggage.

The closer I got the more distinct the noise, until I realized it was tiny voices. Our clothes to be exact. "Let us out!" they shouted. "We're squished!," yelled one particularly clear voice. And then the chanting started. "Wash Us!", they roared over and over again, their voices no longer timid. The litany was getting so loud Bear had come to investigate. Yes, I felt sorry for them, packed like sardines wearing remnants of dripped olive oil, tiramisu, crumbs of biscotti, mussel infused butter splatters, and shiraz stains. They were a miserable bunch. Did I take pity? No, not I of the black pitted little heart, I turned on my heel and marched back to bed, pillow over my head to drown out their complaints. I will deal with them later . . . and suffer, I am certain, the consequences all summer long . . . wrinkles that refuse to release, shrinkage, bleeding . . . vengeful creatures that they are. In the meantime, I will dream of this:



Bonifacio, France. Ah!