Folding Laundry

He folds baseball pants. Not his. His son's.

He folds bell bottoms. Not his. His daughter's.

He folds a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Not his. His wife's.

He opens a beer and puts Bob Dylan on the stereo.  The old LP. He takes comfort in the scratches and hisses.

The socks will be retired. Thrown away.  He has no memory of throwing away socks, but he must have thrown away dozens of pairs in his life. He has no memory of throwing them away. Instead they just fade away. Unnoticed. Forgotten.

The scratches and hisses will always be there. They will change over time. They will degrade the more times he runs the needle down the spiraled groove of the black PVC. Black. Durable. PVC. Yet, like a rock under water, atom by atom, the vinyl under the diamond-tip needle will eventually wear away. Not in his lifetime. Not in this one. He plays it over and over and over again. Don't think twice it's alright. It's alright. It's always alright.

Socks. A cheap, modern comfort he doesn't take for granted. 

Yet, one day his son will fold his own pants. And probably not baseball pants. One day, he will watch his son take his last bat in little league. He'll watch him field his last ball.

One day his daughter will fold her own bell bottoms. Or, maybe not, unless they come back in style again.

His wife's T-shirt. The last vestiges of the Grateful Dead will tour this summer and then be gone. Eventually the T-shirt will too.

He remembers longing for the day when the kids could put their own socks on. And now they can, and he misses the act. Slipping the tiny pockets of cotton over their toes, their heels, their ankles.

They brush their own teeth.

They ride their bikes across town.

He'll never do these things for them again. They don't need him. 

He'll never again trim their tiny finger nails for them.

He'll never again button their shirts for them.

He'll never again drive them to school.

He'll never again comfort them to sleep.

He'll never again fold their socks. Their pants. Their shirts. 

There are no more diapers to buy, change, or dispose of. No more strollers to wrangle into the back of the car. No more juice boxes. No more pacifiers.

Those things are gone. And have been for a while.

And now, other things are passing. 

So, he folds the laundry. And he loves it. He loves the funny socks, some the Eggo waffles logo. The baseball pants with extra padding for the game winning slide into home base. The flared pants she wears because she likes being different, and she is different. 

He folds the laundry and smiles. It's not a chore. It's tangible memories in his hands.