Folding in

I sit on the soft cream colored couch. The sun shines threw the open windows casting golden hues across the living room. The smell of sweet flowers from outside feel the room, that is carried in by a light warm breeze that is filled with the happy chirp of birds.

I fold soft blankets, sweaters, and knitted scarves. I gently places folded jeans, shirts, and socks on the couch. The fresh clean scent of laundry joins the dance of the flowers.

The process is quite, slow, and peaceful. It is a task I have done what seems like a million times. It is like a mechanical task I could do with my eyes closed. And oddly I find comfort in it.

It is one of the few times in a week were I have some time to myself, and can truly think. And it allows me some escape from all the noise in the world. From all the questions people keep asking me: How are you holding up? Are you sleeping? When was the last time you ate? And all those other questions. I know they are concerned about me. But I wish they would just realize that each time they ask it is like they are opening the wound again.

So doing something normal. Something as mundane as laundry helps.

I pick up a white towel and fold it neatly. I place it with the other towels, and gently sigh. It's a sigh of peace knowing Im alone.

But then I gasp as I pull out a clean yet slightly stained youth baseball jersey. The white it smudged from several games of sliding in the powdery dirt. I hold the jersey in front of me carefully staring at the number 7 on the back. I close my eyes and try and hold back the tears as I hug the jersey to me. I breath in the sweet smell of detergent, and wish to smell just a hint of his boyish smell. I close my eyes tight and long to hug him again.

Then I slow my breathing, fold it and put it with the rest of his stuff. My hands lightly shake as I continue to pull more items out of the hamper and curse myself for forgetting his stuff was mixed in there as well.

I then continued my slow process and began to forget the pain...or at least numb it. It was working again until I pull a light blue knitted blanket. My mom had made it for him when he was born...eight years ago. It had many years of love worn into it. I freeze forgetting that night I got mad at him for taking chocolate ice cream into his room and eating it on his bed. He had gotten the ice cream all over the blanket. I remember him feeling really sorry and sad. He kept saying he didnt mean too. I wish I hadn't gotten mad at him. I wish I had told him it was ok, and that I would let him eat ice cream where ever he wanted too if I could just hug him whenever I feel about it.

At that i get sad again and this time throw the blanket across the room with a frustrated groan. I fold in on myself just like my laundry around me. And then I cry as I think about that car that hit him on his bike. I think about how small he looked on the road laying next to his crumpled up bike. I think about how the metal of the bike seemed to have broken so easy...and how much stronger it was tham his small body. I think about how much damage that car must had done to him. I scream as I think about all those tubes and wires on him in the ICU. I bring my hands over my eyes as I think about the last sounds I heard around him where the beep of machines. How those beeps are showing that his heart still beats and he still breaths. I think about how the echoing sounds of air being pushed out of a machine is what was helping his lungs move, and how I would have done anything to help him breath. I would have given him all of my breath if I could. At that I start to throw all my neatly folded laundry around me as I think about his eyes closed and not being open for days...for three weeks. I scream and make the birds outside go quiet as I think about how my family and life will never be the same again.

I look at my mess. I look at my laundry scattered around me. I think of how something I have done several time no longer feels the same. I had put off doing this laundry like most housely chores since the accident. I thought doing something normal would make me feel better, but it all made it worse. It made me realized that no matter how basic or mundane the task was it all was worth so much more when he was around. Because most of what I did was for him. And if he wasn't here than who was I doing it for?

And as I sit on the floor now circled with my thrown clothes I barely hear my phone go off. I eventually move and answer it before the last ring. And the voice on the other line makes me freeze, "Mrs. Clarkson, he is awake. Ben is awake, and he wants to see his mother."

i didn't realize I was holding my breath. I didn't realize everything around me had gone quiet. And as the sound of the world comes back to me I hear the birds even brighter than before. I hear hope.

I reply back with what I hope is strength in my voice, "ill be right there. Tell him his mom loves him, and is coming."

Then I grab the blue blanket knowing he will wanting it. Knowing my little boy was awake and ok