Creator1

There it sits, a heaping pile of tangled and layered clothes mounted on the armchair. It sits heavy and empty, waiting to be tended to. I reluctantly drudge over and start chipping away at the pile, today it’s everyone’s clothes. I grumble as a start turning clothes right side out and separating them by their owners.

There is always so many of these chores we do, so many dishes, so many clothes, so many times to sweep and mop, so many broken or missing toys or tools. It never seems to end, and once you’re caught up, something else is behind, a game of juggling that’s increasing in difficulty.

 As I fold my youngest daughter’s shirt, I can smell her distinct smell mixed with flowery laundry detergent. The kind of scent a parent knows about their kids, or a spouse knows about their significant other. The shirt is small, but not as small as she’s had. My oldest son’s slacks all have rips in the knees, this is an absurd style he insists on that he’ll soon stop doing. I know because I also did that as a young boy, what’s old is new again.

My oldest daughter comes down the stairs at nine at night. She’s brought a glass cup down, absolutely stuffed with dirty silverware, there’s all our spoons! I asked how all that silverware got in her room if she’s not allowed to have food in her room. ‘I dunno’ she roles her eyes and retreats back upstairs leaving me with more dishes.

I set the shirt down hearing myself think, ‘These shirts aren’t getting any smaller’. I complain, bitch, and moan about these chores we do. They take time from us and stress us out when they are mounting, but I’m not sure if I’d bitch less if they weren’t there. I folded laundry, contemplating that one day sooner than I realize, there won’t be any cute shirts to fold. There will be no treasure trove of missing spoons, restoring balance to the cutlery. There will be no more goodnight hugs, no more help tying shoes, no more playing catch. I stood alone folding laundry in the silence of the night, practicing the silence that will come when the kids are grown. The silence is deafening.

These chores we do, and do again, and again may morph from acts of duty to gifts to oneself. These chores that seemingly have no end. We’re wrong about that. There is an end, and I think when it comes, I’ll beg for these chores we do again.