Once again it is my last day of school, only this time it's the last day of packing all my STUFF into boxes for a move upstairs to 2nd grade. It was not my choice, and although I have nothing against 2nd grade, I didn't realize until this week that much of my horror at the suggestion was directly related to the amount of STUFF I would "need" to move. I have counted neither the boxes I packed nor the hours spent packing them--the totals would be burdensome even to you, dear readers. Further contemplation of my difficulty in lightening the load of STUFF in my life will come later. For now, let us consider the socks.
you came to me--free, a
donation!--punched from stalwart
cardboard, with your glossy orange
miniature clothespins and your
fetching green striped sock monster.
For five years you were
scattered and matched and
scattered and stacked and
trodden and scratched and
lost and found and
as I hold you in my hands (all
but two of your little clothespins
popped and gone; your less-stalwart
storage box long since crushed by
a size 12 Velcro sneaker and replaced
by Dollar Tree plastic), I can not
let you go.
I wrap you tenderly in a ziplock bag
and place you in a hastily taped
carton, for who knows what purpose
may yet be found for your delicious
stripes? Tomorrow morning at 4 am
I will awake knowing that
it is your time, socks: your blessings
have been bestowed, your cunningly
combined colors have challenged
plenty of 5-year-old eyes, and it is
my time--to steel my heart and
let you go.
© Heidi Mordhorst 2015
Now, multiply that story times literally hundreds of who-knows-when-I'll-need-it objects, and then pass me a beer to wash down my B-complex stress supplement.
There is much trouble with poetry over at Carol's sodden little Corner. I'm late to the party today but it usually lasts all weekend...see you there!