Dirty socks in pairs draped over leather boot tops
are not a bother.
They are a sign of life.
They are evidence of a man who comes home.
Who understands me:
a mom who needs a break
a wife who needs a cry
a girl who needs a laugh
a friend who needs a hug.
A man who understands kids who need to wrestle with their dad.
All at the same time.
A man - living and breathing, an every-day hero
who puts chains on tires in the snow
takes on the compost toilet maintenance
carries in the groceries
hauls trash to the dump
keeps the fire lit in winter
and takes us to the lake hot and dusty in the summer.
Socks beside the green recliner mean
there is a man with feet up, eyes shut resting there
confident he can relax in his own home after a day full of
putting out fires
reinventing the wheel
bucking up firewood
building a porch
a bunk bed
Moving dirt with a shovel
moving it with a tractor
He needs his rest. He earns it.
Big smelly socks laying neatly in pairs on the floor
mean something the casual observer wouldn't know;
the pair of feet which those socks protect
hold up a man
who carries the weight of the world
and holds the heart of his beloved.
When I see them there. Or here. Or here and there
I know he doesn't wish to add to my dirty laundry
protest when I pick them up
grimaces when I do
smiles when I tell him I don't mind.
I know he intends to wear them another time before sending them to the wash
even if he never does.
Dirty socks on the floor are nothing romantic
unless you can see beyond what the eye presents
to what those large gray woolen things mean.
They are signs of life.
They are evidence of a man who comes home
he comes home.
And has comfortable feet :-)
*Written for my man. That man who comes home to me,
in honor and celebration of our 14th anniversary this week.
I am so grateful to be picking up YOUR socks! I love you.