Dingy Socks

My husband urged me to clean his room but I couldn't.  I’d been fixated on repetition--one that left me confined and disobedient.  Many days, when my husband was away at work, I'd push through the door, tiptoeing over its contents, careful not to disturb a crumb or paper or a single dingy sock. 

            He never cleaned his room. I remember when I'd holler through his door as he drowned out the sound of my voice with guitars and commercials.  Clean your room, I’d say.  He'd turn down the volume on his radio, asking me to repeat and I'd say, "Clean your room. I'm checking it when you're done and you'd better not rake anything under the bed."  Then, after washing dishes and folding clothes, I'd march upstairs and inspect.  He'd sit on the edge of the bed, watching intently and nervously.  I'd give him a head nod in approval and he'd shoot me a fake smile like I’d interrupted his entire world with my inspection.  Then, as I edged my way to the door, I’d eye a single dingy sock peeking out from under his bed.  But, I pretended never to see.  Because it wasn't the single dingy sock that mattered; it was the respect that counted. 

            As I step over each sock, my heart grows heavier and my soul hiccups with the idea that I can't tell him to clean his room anymore.  His bed has a permanent indention where he once sat and I occupy his existence, watching his open closet with starched uniforms.  I would have never imagined the dingy socks would have reached such maturity. Each crease on his uniform stood at attention as though he'd incorporated ironing into his daily rituals—as though he'd finally learned not to just shove things under the bed. 

            I wondered if he followed directions there.  If he'd made a mistake that ended horribly. If my disregard for dingy socks under the bed made him think that half-ass was okay.  I never realized that one dingy sock meant disregarding a missile or cannon or an array of gunshots.  I should've been sterner.  More of a disciplinarian.   

            I picked up the sock from the floor, pressed it stiffly to my nose and tucked it into my pocket.  So far, I’d gathered nine single socks. I’d ironed them just to inhale the obscene scent that was all too familiar.   Then, I stored them away in my own personal shoebox along with his outdated letters about annoying bunk mates and foreign journeys and souvenirs.  I added it to my collection.