Mystery Socks
My favorite socks, a gift from my son who knows I love mushrooms
It’s hard to talk about unexpected gifts that have come with my grief without sounding maudlin or insensitive to others’ experiences.
Strangely, I could more easily find the words right after my Dad died. It was before COVID. Before my kids’ school lives were obliterated. Before Chadwick Boseman and Ruth Bader Ginsburg died and George Floyd was murdered. Before the wildfires that burned half the West. Before the Presidential election and its twisted aftermath. Before other losses, too private to mention here.
I’m sitting in the charred ruins of my plans. I see them for the mirage they were. Not useless, exactly, just mental exercises about a future I never controlled.
The smoke is clearing.
Time slows.
Every day is a chance to try something new. Or notice what’s here. That’s all there is.
While Dad was in the ICU, I lived at my parents’ house and slept in my old bedroom. Dad’s wool socks were hanging in the guest bathroom. He'd used one of those plastic department store pinch-clip hangers as a sock dryer and it dangled from the towel rack. He’d probably hung his socks to dry a few days. I unclipped them and put them away in his dresser, ready for his return which never happened.
I can close my eyes right now and see those socks. They have come to represent the essential Mystery: we don’t know how long we have, and we don’t know what tomorrow will hold.
One gift of grief is that I no longer hide from this simple truth.
I don’t always make the best decisions. I’m fallible and cowardly and have my own blind spots. I fritter away time, forget to call, and react too hastily.
Another gift of grief is that I can better see my faults and acknowledge them without shame.
In shame’s place: humility and gratitude for the chance to try something different.
