One of the final Friday chores I found compatible while comforting the recovering dog was to attack the basket of lost socks that occupies a permanent place in the bedroom. Several years ago I wrote a poem about this basket and tested it out on an artist friend. But that was then, this is now, and as the late afternoon sun but still cold air crept into the back room, I remembered the blog. After all, socks are small.
No one knows how these socks accumulate. They simply travel from drawer to feet, feet to basket, basket to washer, washer to dryer, dryer to new basket and then up to the queue for folding. My dryer does not eat them and neither does yours. If I hung clothes outside all year long, the trip outside might be a trap, but I only hang when the grass is green.
Today was a good day for socks, however: twenty eight matches with the normal half basket of leftovers. As I placed these back to review another day, I found a sock whose mate I knew I’d seen. “Where’s Perry Ellis?” I asked no one in particular.
But Perry Ellis Navy mansock #2 was nowhere to be seen. So Perry #1 went back to the basket and I stood up to move on. I took a step and Boom! Perry Ellis #2 fell right out on the floor! Not only that, he brought with him a dashing red sport sock to push the day’s match count to 30 pairs.
None of this commotion about socks is really what’s on my mind and heart. Only two days passed between my last post of prayers to “smooth the waters” and the call bearing the news my mother-in-law died in her sleep. Friday’s activities of matching socks, baking cookies, and “working from home” carry no substance compared to this loss. When I consider how to honor her, I am smaller than my socks.
Later this week I hope to find a way share with you the life she lived and the things and people she cherished. I sense her absence keenly .