The Last Sock | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: The Last Sock | Previous Challenge Entry
By Yvonne Blake
04/16/20
LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE
SEND A PRIVATE COMMENT
ADD TO MY FAVORITES

“That’s it. I’m done. That’s the last sock.”

I folded the two pink toed socks together and added them to my pile of shirts, pants, nighties, and . . . unmentionables.

I remember when I first got married how fun it was to wash Ricky’s things with mine and then fold them into two neat piles: his and hers. Even washed and hung on the clothesline, I’d sniff his t-shirts to catch the manly scent that still lingered in the threads.

Then came the babies, and the laundry exploded, especially since I chose to use cloth diapers. There were mountains of spit-up on onesies, drooled on bibs, and poopy pants. As one little tyke got bigger, another infant was right behind him, bless their hearts. After fifteen years of diapers, (often more than one child at the same time) the eighth one was finally potty-trained, and we celebrated by buying new underwear for the whole family.

Little did I know that was only the beginning. As fast as I washed clothes, dirty ones appeared in the empty hamper. It seemed like the widow’s jar of oil in the Bible that never emptied. The chore of doing laundry was never finished. I learned to look for the blessings, like having a washer and running water.

The girls were constantly complaining of needing clean clothes, but that was only because they changed twenty million times a day. Even if a dress was only worn two minutes, before the owner decided it looked hideous on her that particular day, it was thrown on the floor and eventually into the laundry. Of course, the dress they really wanted was dirty, because they had tossed it in the basket yesterday. I was glad when they were finally old enough to do their own laundry.

The boys were worse. They would go days with very few things in the hamper, but that was because they wore the same shirt and pants every day. I didn’t even want to think about the socks and underwear. When I insisted they clean their rooms, the pile of rancid, muddy, clothes would tower higher than the basketball hoop, which was supposed to encourage them to put their clothes in the laundry bag. Once puberty collided with team uniforms, the whole house stunk like a locker room for six years.

Socks were one of my most relentless enemies. Each week, I’d end up with at least four or five without a mate. I’d add them to the single sock collection until the basket was overflowing. Then I’d pay the most money-desperate kids a penny per pair to match them. As the kids grew (and their understanding of economics), my bribe increased to a nickel, and then eventually, a dime for each pair. I couldn’t afford to hire their extra help after that. Many times, in the morning rush, more than one child went to school with mismatched socks. When the boys hollered about wearing pink or purple ones, I'd tell them to be thankful they had any socks.

Then came the college years. It was good to have them home, although their luggage was filled with compacted, dried, dirty laundry. I hoped their bags weren’t examined at the airport. I’d be so happy to see them, I didn’t complain, but thank the Lord for the blessings. I washed and dried and folded and mended each piece of clothing, knowing that sometime would be the last time.

After a while, they all found their own homes and spouses and brought back grandbabies to visit. At times there might be more bedding and towels to wash, but, most of the time, it was just Ricky and I rattling around the house. I still sniffed his t-shirts, especially when they’d been soaking up the sunshine on the clothesline. The socks all came out even, most of the time, except when one dropped on the bedroom floor, and I couldn’t lean down far enough to look under the bed.

A gentle touch on my shoulder interrupts my thoughts. It’s my daughter, Linda. I’m going to go live with her family, now that Ricky is gone. God has given me good life, and there have been many changes. This is the hardest one. I'll have to look for the blessings.

“Are you all packed?”

I nod and sigh. After fifty-four years, eight months, three weeks, and five days, I had finished my last load of laundry.

PREVIOUS ENTRY | NEXT ENTRY
SUBMIT YOUR ENTRY FOR THIS WEEK'S CHALLENGE

The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.

Accept Jesus as Your Lord and Savior Right Now - CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.