On Saturday I found myself alone in the house with Claire’s laundry. She wanted to run out while it was in process, so I took over while she was gone.

Laundry is not a task I mind. In fact, folding it can be vaguely Zen-like: the warmth of towels hot from the dryer, the scent of fabric-softener sheets rising from them.  And, because it had been so long since I folded my middle girl’s shirts and tights and sweaters, I savored this chance to help her out. I noted with pleasure how well she had begun the task, the carefully sorted piles of darks and lights.

I couldn’t help but think back to a time when I was washing and drying her baby clothes, the little gowns and onesies, many of them hand-me-downs. How long ago that was, yet how close it seemed. How strong is the chain of caring that passes from heart to hand.

For the last load I threw in a t-shirt and sweatshirt of my own, and before she left that night, Claire handed them to me — clean and fragrant.

She had folded my clothes just as I folded hers. It may not be the circle of life, nothing that grandiose. Let’s just call it the circle of laundry.