I Forgive You
When I opened up my sock drawer, I considered if I was hallucinating,
“For crying out loud, what happened to all my socks?” The drawer was empty except for one pair of little girls ruffled anklet socks, with an unforgettable red ribbon woven through the center of the ruffle.
They were unmistakably an exact replica of my favorite sox when I was like six years old and I wore them and wore them until the fabric became so worn and unraveled that I cried when my mother said, “Give them to me before they fall off your feet!”
“No I won’t!” I cried standing my ground like a monumental statue. Having to forcibly remove them off my feet looked as if it pained my mother as much as it pained me. Nevertheless, off they went into the trash despite my rigid protest. I remember how angry I felt, how out of control of my own destiny, wishing that my mother would leave me alone and let me make my own decisions.
“I hate you!” I screamed out from the next room with all my might. “I wish I had a different mother! Give me back my socks!”
But that was thirty years ago, and although in a nostalgic way I appreciated seeing my old favorite socks brand spanking new come back to life under my control, I assumed they would not fit, serving no purpose whatsoever other than leaving me in a sockless dilemma. With no immediate alternative to adorn my feet, I decided to give them a go, slipping them on hoping they would cover more than my big toes.
Miraculously, they not only fit, as soon as I slipped them on, I became that 6 year old again, but in body only. My attention quickly turned to all the disadvantages my current predicament was about to impose and I instinctively thought about calling my mother for advice. Funny, when I was six, I had no idea how much I needed her guidance. Now that I was myself a Mom, I understood, but unfortunately it had been five years since we laid my mother to rest, so I knew I was on my own.
Sitting down on the floor with socks that fit and my grown up clothing swimming around my tiny body, I could not help but think about what my mother said to me right after I totally eviscerated her the last time I had worn my favorite socks.
“I understand how you feel, because I too was once a little girl that thought I knew better than my mother. It is my job to look out for you and sometimes you will strongly disagree with me and sometimes you will even feel like you hate me, but I assure you those feelings will pass and I forgive you, because no matter what you say, no matter what you do, I will always love you anyway.”
It had always bothered me that I never said I was sorry for being so mean to my mother on that day, still believing that she had no right to take away my favorite socks.
It was then that the closet door opened, ever so slowly, and before I saw her figure, I knew exactly who I was about to see. Stepping out of the closet it was my mother; not as I last remembered her, but as she was on that day way back when;
“Look. I brought you your favorite socks. Remember?”
“Thank you mom. Yes I remember. But I really don’t need them anymore. I’m not sure I ever did. I have all I need right in front of me and I’m glad you are here because there is something I need to say.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m sorry for the way I treated you when you took my socks away from me. I loved you then, I love you now, I’ve always loved you.”
“Oh honey. I know you do. I’ve always known…..did you really think I came here to bring you back your socks?”