My Turn: Memories folded in
I cried when I put my socks on today, and I have a secret.
When my mom was staying with me before she died, in her weak and sickly state, she would still attempt to be helpful in her own maddening way. She folded my laundry fresh from the laundry basket before I could get near it.
My mother was a master folder, a folding whiz and a constant source of amazement to me. I'm her roll-it-up-in-a-ball, throw-it-in-the-drawer, it's-OK-as-long-as-it's-clean, folding-challenged daughter.
Here's my secret. I have some of those items in my drawers, yet unfolded for the almost nine years since her death. I take them out sometimes and marvel at the symmetry of the sheets, the conciseness of the socks, the beauty of these everyday items crafted into artwork. They take up far less room than any other of their species. I tell myself one day I'll slowly undo and study each one, then practice until I'm able to compress them in the same precise way my mother did. But I haven't, and they've occupied the same space for all these years, neatly folded, almost wrinkle-free although no iron ever touched them. Yes, she could miraculously make wrinkles disappear, too, with her impeccable folding.
This morning, as I dressed in my brown corduroy pants with my new brown shoes from Land's End, I searched for a brown pair of socks. I could only find one pair; those neatly folded by my mother so many years ago. I put them back and continued searching for another pair. Those folded brown socks came into my hands time and again.
With resignation, I realized it was time to let go of my long-held grip on thin air and unfold the first cherished keepsake. I held them up one more time to admire their simplicity. I could visualize her folding the socks with quick, deft motions. A turn here, a flip there, and it was done in a minute. As I slowly rolled open the first layer, tears fell from my eyes, and I could barely see what I was doing.
Wanting to record this event in my mind for a long time, I waited a little. I am somewhat embarrassed to say I put them to my nose to see if her smell remained; my socks even brushed my lips. No smell, just a vision of her telling me it was time to do this, and my futile, silent protest.
I cried when I put my socks on today. My mom feels physically closer to me than she has been in a long time, so I made rigatoni, one of her favorites, and savored the day.
--Rosanna DeVergiles,Islandia
