Rapture Rhapsodic

All this buzz about the end of days has got me thinking. First came the Absurdist humor Tweets and Facebook posts, followed by invitations to post-Rapture looting parties, (what to wear, what to wear?) and the folly that follows a good thread. But as I rise from my desk to continue the perpetual cycle of laundry, a new status update spins into my head. What if this actually happened? Not tomorrow, I’ve got plans, but maybe later in the week, say… Wednesday after Oprah’s final episode? I picture myself, turning off the television, slightly weepy, and crossing through the kitchen to the basement stairs. Wondering how the flies got in the house, I make a mental note to check the screens. The day is sunny; the rains have gone, and as I pass by the open backdoor I hear a croaking in the garden; a familiar sound of frogs who sang me through the summers of my youth. As I land at the bottom of the stairway I catch a glimpse of my teenage son on the basement couch. It’s well past noon and he’s still sleeping… at least I think he’s sleeping. Surely not the slaying of the first born, I think, and wait… there are no frogs in Denver. I cross to the couch, pass my hand by his open mouth to feel his breath and relieved I reroute to the laundry room.
I empty the dryer of its warm contents and bring them lovingly into folds as Apocalyptic thoughts tumble through my head. How different the world would be if the “Righteous” rose and left the rest behind. I imagine we’d reinstate Universal Healthcare to match the bloated need, which would be so much easier with the insurance lobbyists out of the way. Ditto for environmental causes. The real estate market would explode with vacancies, tipping the stagnant market to the buyer’s favor and foreclosures would drop: it’s hard to evict a zombie. Loans would be readily available with a plethora of bankers and mortgage brokers left, though interest rates might be hellish. I’m thinking the ranch style will be the dwelling of choice; writhing up a flight of stairs can be torture.
My thoughts turn inward. How would I feel if this really happened and how prepared am I to meet my maker? The spin cycle stops. I lift the lid and throw linens from their moist drum into the inferno of the dryer. I’d be okay I think, if the rest of my life is any indication: not the Valedictorian, but above average… top of the class perhaps.
Turning the washer dial 360°, the sound of the basin filling calms me. What the hell am I thinking? Of course you’d go to Heaven, Tracy. You’ll be there to greet the sinless mothers, Bounce sheets in one hand, box of Tide in the other: “Our Lady of Perpetual Laundry”. *smiles* Love can wash away a multitude of sins. Love and a can of Shout.