Today is not that day

I opened the dresser drawer the other day. The one you kept your socks in. There’s so many pairs of white crew socks in there because you kept buying packages of them because you didn’t like the ones you bought before. You didn’t want to get rid of the ones you didn’t like. Why, I don’t know. So, the drawer is too full.

I picked the sock drawer to go through to start putting things in a give away bag. Because you don’t need them anymore. Because you died. I figured socks are an easy thing to let go of because they are just socks. There’s so many socks in there and socks shouldn’t hold any sentimental value so giving them away shouldn’t be hard.

But, it was hard. I stood there looking at all the white socks in the drawer. Some were nearly new. Some were old. Some were the good brand. Some were the cheap brand. Some fit your extra wide feet just right. Some were too tight and made your feet hurt. Some had dirt stains on them that didn’t come out in the laundry. But, all of those socks were yours.

I picked up a pair of your socks and held them in my hand. I stood there quietly for a few minutes and looked at them. I said to myself “These are JUST socks. Put them in the bag”. I looked at them longer. I used them to wipe away the tears that I just can’t stop from streaming down my face. I put the socks back in the drawer and I closed it. I held on to the knob on the closed drawer and stood there for just a little while longer with my head down, feeling unproductive and stuck.

Today is not that day.

I don’t know when it will be that day……but, today is not that day.

I opened your T-shirt drawer numerous times, before I ever attempted to clear out the sock drawer. I took some out to look at them. There’s the many surf brand T-shirts you loved to wear ever since I met you. There’s the plain white T-shirts with stains all over them that you liked to wear to work in the hot summer because they were cooler than other T-shirts. Those should have been easy to part with, but, not today. Today is not that day.

I’ve looked through your closet at all the clothes you hardly ever wore because T-shirts and shorts or sweatpants were your usual attire. I found things hidden in the shirt pockets because you hid things in them for as long as I’ve known you. I took the old and worn leather belt off the last pair of jeans you wore. You bought other belts over the years to replace the old one but you always went back to that one with the leather peeling off of it because you said it was your favorite and none of the other ones were as comfortable to wear. I can still see you sitting on the edge of the bed, putting one leg in your jeans and then the next and then standing up to tighten the belt before finding the right hole in it without having to look where it was. Your hands just knew where that right hole was. I gave that belt to our son who said he was going to punch extra holes in it so it would fit him. That would make you happy.

I looked through all your baseball hats. You were so picky about the hats you wore. You didn’t like hats with a flat bill, only the curved ones. You would bend the bills on hats to give them the perfect curve if they weren’t just right. You had hats you only wore to work and ones that you wore when we went out somewhere. The work hats all had a permanent stain on the top and bottom of the left side of the bill where you would grab ahold of it with your thumb and fingers to adjust it. You always asked me if I could get those stains out when I washed them but I never could. I watched you put your hats on a million times over the years and take them on and off your head again till they were situated just right. Your hats squished your dark auburn curls out of the opening in the back of your hat and that’s when you could really tell you needed a haircut. All your hats are still hanging on the hooks in the kitchen and the bedroom where you left them. I can’t move them because today is not that day.

I moved your Keen work boots out from behind the kitchen door where you left them sitting next to your Stanley lunchbox and water jug. I put them in the hallway next to the rest of your shoes. You hadn’t even had those boots long enough to break them in really good. You didn’t want to spend that much on work boots but I reminded you again that the podiatrist told you to wear good supportive shoes because you weren’t a teenager anymore. Besides, cheap shoes and boots always made your feet hurt. Spending money on something for yourself was never something you liked to do and I always had to talk you into it. I see the boots in the hallway every time I walk out of the bedroom and they’ll stay there for now because I can’t give them away yet. Today is not that day.

I looked at the two new pairs of New Balance shoes you had just bought the weekend before when we rode up to the outlets in Williamsburg. You didn’t want to spend that much on shoes but I convinced you to because you needed new ones and they were on a really good sale. You wore the everyday pair you bought only once when we went out to dinner the night before, the last time I would see you awake and conscious. I don’t know anyone else who wears a size 12 double wide shoe like you did.

I left the pair of Crocs you would wear outside in the yard in the hallway, too. Our grandson always liked to stomp around the house in them. We would laugh because the shoes were giant on his tiny feet and it looked like he was trying to walk with snowshoes on. I couldn’t give them away because it might upset a 4 year old who is still asking to go find his Papa. Today is not that day so those shoes will stay in the hallway with the others.

I took your favorite Columbia jacket off the coat hook in the kitchen where you hung it the last time you wore it. I put it on to see what it felt like. I stuffed my hands down in the pockets like you used to do yourself. I took it off a minute later. I was going to put it away in a drawer or a closet but I decided to put it back on the hook hanging next to my aprons because that’s where it belongs. I touched the quilted flannel Wolverine jacket you used to wear when it was cold. I found that for you years ago in a thrift store and bought it because it was in your hard to find size. I sewed the rips up in that jacket so many times because you didn’t want to get rid of it because it was so warm. I held it up to my face and it still smelled like the wood you worked with every day, just like it always did. I don’t want to wash it because it wouldn’t smell like wood anymore, which is what you smelled like all the time. Today is not that day.

I left your toothbrush in the cup in the bathroom and your razor full of copper colored beard and mustache hairs in the medicine cabinet. I left your hairbrush on the shelf next to mine. I can’t throw the toothbrush, the razor or the hairbrush away. I don’t want to do that right now. Today is not that day.

You are everywhere in this house. Each day I look at all these things that were yours. Things that are really small and insignificant but are important to me none the less as they help me feel closer to you. Giving them away right now is just too hard. Giving them away right now feels like I’m purging you from my life. Giving them away right now feels wrong. Giving them away right now is just too painful.

I just can’t give your things away right now.

Today is not that day.