Stains

It’s a rare night that I can’t sleep. I’m trying to remove, without waking David, yellow vegetable dye stains of crumbled bits of a bunny-shaped chocolate truffle I ate yesterday, from my favorite pair of white jeans. Undergoing their third washing, they appear permanently stained. Perhaps it’s time to pronounce them, but I’m not ready to let go yet. Why is it easier to remove bloodstains from clothing than yellow Easter candy dye? Sigh.

Not a single car or pedestrian moves along the street outside. If not for David’s rhythmic breathing I might consider I was left behind after the post-apocalyptic rapture.  I’m too much of an optimist to convince myself of this, however. I remember hearing of a boy, home alone, who locked himself in a closet, fearing the rapture occurred and he’d been left behind. His parents found him crying in the closet when they came home.

The yellow dye clings to the white denim like sin; evidence of enjoying a chocolate treat (gluttony), or simple sloppiness (sloth)? I only care because I really like these jeans.

How simple is my life, that a pair of stained jeans is the topic of a post?

I wonder if any of my patients are also sleepless tonight, wrestling with pain, fear or nausea? Are they afraid of being left behind, or more afraid of what they leave behind? This thought makes me sad. I’d rather think about removing yellow candy stains from my white jeans.

Is that a sin?