Today…I can fold his shirts.

I’ve spent today washing, ironing and folding his shirts. Normally, this is a task I don’t love and frankly, don’t do very often. He has done his own laundry for a long time now. 

But tomorrow, he goes to college. I want him to have clean shirts and I want him to look nice and “We are not slobs” and  “First impressions matter” and “Put your best foot forward” and all that. 

But mostly, I want to spend time with his stuff. I want to do something for him. My grown man of a son. He’s independent and capable and leaving. But today, I can fold his shirts. 

I’m all melancholy and dreamy, kind of wafting through his stuff. 

I’m thinking about these shirts. How today, they seem like no big deal, “It’s just a shirt”. A necessity. But one day, a girl might put it on and wear it home. One day she might smell it or sleep with it to remember him. 

All the times we remember what people were wearing. “Remember the guy in the striped shirt?” Or “Right hand corner, blue shirt…” 

I’m thinking about my dad’s shirt that I kept in my closet for years after he was gone. To put on. To remember. It wasn’t “just a shirt”. 

I’m thinking about the fact that all of these shirts will probably be wrinkled from now on but he will at least do laundry and he’ll use the detergent we bought at Target yesterday and he will smell good. Maybe, getting dressed for class, he will pick one of these up in the coming days and think of home. I hope it makes him feel safe. Comfortable. Confident.

I’m thinking about the button downs that he’s packing just in case and the golf shirts for certain events, knowing it’s the t-shirts…the old, worn in ones that he will reach for most. Like all of us, we have our outside gear and our inside gear. He’s cozy. A hugger. Comfy. Not fussy. Real. He’s a t-shirt guy.

I’m thinking about some shirts I’ve kept for 20 years that I reach for, usually to sleep in. For that time of day we are most ourselves. The times we are most “at home”. 

I’m thinking of all the t-shirts I’ve put on over the years. All the teams and the friends and the sororities and the boyfriends. All the logos and colleges. I’m imagining all the moms of all the other boys, folding and packing shirts for them. The boys I met along the way. The boys my daughters know. I’m picturing those moms, dreamily wandering through their homes, wondering,
“Did I tell him enough? Did I love him enough? Does he know how to be out there in the world without me? Does he know how to be kind? Does he know how to treat women? Does he know how to iron a shirt?” Even when we know all the answers are yes. We still think, “Should I have loved more? Could I have poured more into him?” 

He’s my only boy and my youngest so this is especially bittersweet for me. But it’s always a struggle. To hold on, to let go. To pack them up and move them out. To remember folding the 3T as you’re packing the XL. 

I’m remembering the little boy now. In his Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt and his White Sox cap. Elmo backpack. Waiting for the bus. So excited for school. So excited to learn. Ready to go. 

He’s ready now too. His shirts are ready. It’s time. 

I did, however, hold back a shirt or two of his. I need some new pajamas.