Her socks

Sandy's brother knitted her some amazing wool socks last year. They fit perfectly, were warm and snuggly (not itchy), and she loved them. She wore them when we went camping, and she wore them in the hospital in June. At some point when we were home for hospice, they were laid on the edge of the stairs. That's where they've been ever since.

I've moved them off the stairs to sweep, but always returned them to the same place. I don't even know who put them there originally (probably me), but I somehow believe that's where Sandy will look for them.

A few days ago, Belly started carrying them around, just as he carries hats, scarves, gloves, his toys, and sometimes blankets. Sometimes he brings a sock to me and drops it at my feet. Once he managed to put it in the trash can in my office. (He likes to put his treasures in things. The trash can in my office is a very accessible way to do that when a shoe isn't available. I always go through the trash before emptying it, just in case Belly has been busy.)

Each time, I've rescued the sock from the floor, trash can, bed, chair, or wherever else he's put it, and I've returned both of them to the stairs. It occurred to me this morning that I could put them in the drawer. That's almost certainly what I intended to do when I left them on the stairs in the first place; often I put things there to remind myself to carry them up to the bedroom or my office. But I'm anxious about it. Will Sandy know to look there?

A couple of things strike me here. First, suppose Sandy did come looking for her socks. You might assume that she'd look in the sock drawer before she looked on the stairs. But somehow it never occurred to her to look in the sock drawer. I was always the one who "found" her cozy socks for her. Go figure.

Second, legally, those socks are mine now. (Thanks, Pete.) It's all mine. She's gone. Her kindle is mine (though I recharge it after I use it because I want it to be ready to go when she reaches for it). Her laptop is mine (though I only use it when I'm checking her mail or doing things related to her). Her books, CDs, DVDs, photo albums, blankets, jackets, tchotchkes, baking dishes, cookbooks, flours and grains, walking sticks, camping equipment, shoes, clothing — all mine legally and practically, but all very much hers in my mind. I wear her clothing daily, but I wear it because it's hers. I take care of things because they're hers, put them in places where I know she'd be able to find them.

I don't do any of this consciously. If she came back through some unprecedented miracle, her possessions would be the least of our thoughts. She'd reclaim what's still around, and we'd purchase replacements for the things I've given away or used up. I'm not concerned that she'll think I don't love her, not actually worried that she won't be able to find things.

It's all habit, long-term association. I'm used to living my life with her in mind, used to thinking of our space as a cooperative enterprise. One in which I often failed to move my shoes out of the middle of the floor — but I tried to remember. One in which she downloaded photos and erased them from the camera without telling me — but then bent over backwards to make sure I got copies when she realized what she'd done. We lived our lives with each other in mind, and we often got it wrong. But the habit was there. 

I'm not giving up that habit any time soon. I don't know that I could if I wanted to. But I think I'll move the socks to the drawer. I really don't want to lose anything that Sandy cherished.