Its not just socks. There is usually a sweatshirt too, with one sleeve inside out, needing to be righted and folded and put away. I lift the heavy cotton to my face and breathe in, the familiar scent of him triggering a flood of memories, dating back to that first day in March of 2001. We were so young back then, our eyes full of stars, living our lives like a revolution. A smile unfolds on my face as I proceed to fold the sweatshirt, thanking G0D that I still have the man who wears it.
It used to bother me, picking up his socks. I couldn't understand what was so hard about putting them in the hamper, which is strategically placed near his side of the bed. Every day when I saw them I would sigh and stoop, wishing that I didn't have to do it. I know now that he never meant not to abide by my wishes, he just never got in the habit I wanted him to form. Habits are hard enough to form when we want them, let alone when someone else wants them for us. So it never took, and I eventually gave up.The funny thing is, anymore I rather like seeing his clothes on the floor. It says that I have a husband. It says that he has a job and stays away during the day, busy and happy and fulfilled, providing for the kids and me. How many widows in the world would do anything to find a pair of their husband's bunched socks? Or divorcees who's hearts still ache for what was, and for what is never coming back.
There are so many virtues that a person develops as her marriage rolls out over the years, and gratefulness is among them. Gratefulness wards off bitterness every time.
