October 11, 2012

picking up his socks

I stoop to pick up his socks.  Every day.  He takes them off cuff-first, pushing them past his ankles and then over his heels, so that they are left in two bunches on the floor.  This requires that I physically un-bunch them before tossing them into the hamper.  I do this every day.

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.