I pull the familiar soft cotton shirt over my head. The faded green bears the scars of many a wash, first from the industrial washers buried in the basement of William and Mary Hall and eventually the stacking variety sitting in our laundry room. The golden yellow number 11 is still hanging on the back even though the edges are cracked and peeling. I wear it when I need to feel like myself and remember what it's like to work hard and accomplish something individually and as a team. Just picking it up brings back the smells of freshly cut grass and the sight of our practice field with the fog lifting in the early morning. A simple t-shirt gives me comfort, renewal and reminders of that part of me that sometimes seems lost.
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One of the first things I noticed when I walked into Jeanne and Mike's room after the accident was the lanudry basket with freshly folded clothes. Was this the last thing she did before they got in the car to go get dinner? For the longest time none of us could touch those clothes. Swimming t-shirts of E's. M's pajamas. Running clothes and socks of Jeanne's and a few of Mike's boxers and undershirts. So intimate, yet familiar. Heartbreaking.
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I do tons of laundry. The girls especially go through alot of clothes. If it's on their body for more than 30 seconds it immediately goes in the hamper. Even after almost 2 years, I still sometimes mix up their clothes, especially as M is closing the gap in size with E. There is something very maternal for me in folding their laundry. I imagine Zhea folding some of the same clothes and lovingly smoothing the wrinkles. Did she fold shirts the same way I do? Do the girls notice? How many times did she fold E's Mickey Mouse undies that her dad had to buy her when their luggage was lost on a father daughter trip to Disney. M sometimes sleeps in one of her dad's navy squandron shirts.
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The girls are starting to forget their parents. Not in the big ways, but in the little things. Their voices. Their smell and touch. It scares them. It scares me.
The girls are starting to grow out of their clothes that their mom bought them. T-shirts from family vacations. The same Mickey Mouse underwear are worn and stretched. If I'm noticing it, I can only imagine what must be going through their minds.
Intellectually, I know that they are only clothes, but in some sense they represent another tangible way in which their parents are gone. First the accident itself and then their house. I can't even imagine how it must feel to live without their sisters.
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I hope that some of those worn t-shirts or pajama bottoms magically continue to fit them. M still has her squadron shirt and her mom's college soccer sweatshirt. I'm hoping those mouse undies hold out a little longer.
Afterall, I still have that practice jersey.
This is a beautiful piece of writing, Peg. Thank you for sharing it.
ReplyDelete(And thank you for helping me see laundry, of all things, in a new way.)
Here from the Lushary. This post has me in full out tears. Clothes may seem like a simple and utilitarian thing, but they can also mean so much more! I have several pieces of clothes that are so worn and tattered, yet I can't bear to get rid of them, yet, because of the memories attached to them. In fact, my favorite night shirt (not tattered yet) was my mom's and it is so comfortable! I can see why she slept in it.
ReplyDeleteI truly hope the girls are able to hang onto a piece or two for many years to come.
So touching. I think there are things we never think about that can compund the loss, add to the grief. I've never thought about how it would feel for them to outgrow the clothes their parents bought them, and how they'd want to hold on to them for that reason. Forgetting things about people who are gone, that just happens. But it's how it happens, in these little ways, that makes it so painful.
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing this beautiful post. It touched me.
ReplyDelete