It is that time of the year again when my son just turned a year older. My mental alarm for an yearly ritual I do keeps going off. The ritual of sorting his clothes into inheritable and non-inheritable stacks, the ritual of washing and stacking it into a neat cardboard box labelled with the son's name and age.
As I sort each piece, I can't help the trip down the memory lane. The pajama with colored sketch pen stains remind me of the time when he colored all over the place including himself, all over the place except for the clean white sheet that he was supposed to color on. There is this another jacket which became his favorite for no particular reason. It was so worn out by use that I had to sneak it out of his wardrobe and pretend I did not know what he was talking about when he kept asking for it. The most emotional one was of-course the reminder of how many people loved him enough to present him with clothes which had his favorite characters, maybe something funny written on it which was so apt, his favorite colors and styles.
This is not just a box of clothes, this is a box of memories that will be passed along from head to head, from brother to brother, cousin to cousin. Every mother who does this ritual eliminates the old and stained from the stock and adds her own fresh new collection ensuring a box full of nice clothes will be passed on to the next kid in line.
As I seal in the box to be placed in the garage, I also give mental thanks to the humility of my sisters and sisters-in-law who accept my box with all their heart despite of being able to afford a whole closet of new ones probably of their own choice. I thank them not only because they are helping me recycle the clothes, they are helping me recycle something much more precious than that. As I see the little tykes spring around doing unmentionable things in what once used to be my child's favorite pants and shirts, I realize they are helping me recycle my memories.
As I sort each piece, I can't help the trip down the memory lane. The pajama with colored sketch pen stains remind me of the time when he colored all over the place including himself, all over the place except for the clean white sheet that he was supposed to color on. There is this another jacket which became his favorite for no particular reason. It was so worn out by use that I had to sneak it out of his wardrobe and pretend I did not know what he was talking about when he kept asking for it. The most emotional one was of-course the reminder of how many people loved him enough to present him with clothes which had his favorite characters, maybe something funny written on it which was so apt, his favorite colors and styles.
This is not just a box of clothes, this is a box of memories that will be passed along from head to head, from brother to brother, cousin to cousin. Every mother who does this ritual eliminates the old and stained from the stock and adds her own fresh new collection ensuring a box full of nice clothes will be passed on to the next kid in line.
As I seal in the box to be placed in the garage, I also give mental thanks to the humility of my sisters and sisters-in-law who accept my box with all their heart despite of being able to afford a whole closet of new ones probably of their own choice. I thank them not only because they are helping me recycle the clothes, they are helping me recycle something much more precious than that. As I see the little tykes spring around doing unmentionable things in what once used to be my child's favorite pants and shirts, I realize they are helping me recycle my memories.
2 comments:
Anu, totally enjoyed reading this and I can relate to this so much. Nice write up. I love reading your blog. It is a talent to write. I have to struggle to write even few sentences.
- Ranjani
Thank you Ranjini, that was such a beautiful compliment.
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