In the haven of the utility closet, I close the door to the world and soften in the quiet of enclosed space, buffered from sound.  Womb-like and snug, walls are lined with ordered shelves, housing clothing, bedsheets and towels.  The hum of the clothes dryer, like a mother’s heartbeat, warms this nook and brings fresh laundry to my hands.

Alone here, I can fold denim and stack it neatly within my reach.  Maintain order, sort terry cloth from jersey.  I’ll arrange long sleeves, button downs and camisoles by groupings on the hanger.  Line Mason jars filled with sea glass and foreign coins next to the afghan.

If grown-ups have a time out place, then this is mine.  I take my pauses with fluffy balls of lint and liquid detergent.  Spin clean with the whirling cold-water rinse. Wander to inner spaces as I replenish hand towels on the shelf.

Inevitably, there’s an outing – the world calls.  But for me, there’s life in the closet.