Monday, March 24, 2014

Plain white tees lay crumpled in the light blue laundry basket I once bought for his dad when cancer hid in his brain.  A couple pair of Hanes still rest between the folds.  I've passed by them for weeks, not having the courage to hide them from the folds of my broken heart. It took everything I could muster to wash away the familiar smells of almost four decades, so how can I bury the other senses as well?  I gather his soft bundle of cotton to my face, hiding my grief in it, if just for a little while.  As a young wife, I remember grumbling over the double portion of wash, especially the grass-stained softball uniforms and smelly jerseys.  Oh, how I would give for that prized chore once again.  Loss is a good teacher of what's sacred.
I let Rob's garments fall back into their now familiar home. Maybe I'll get to them another day... or maybe not.

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