Little Sock
All last week, I drove around in my father’s car with everything he owned in the back seat behind me.
Matthew had already removed the adaptive device — a doorknob a mechanic had attached to the steering wheel so Dad could drive with his left hand when his right side was increasingly weakened by spinal stenosis. I’d vacuumed the car and wiped down the interior. Getting it ready to hand off to Max. But I hadn’t dealt with the back seat.
Every time I climbed in or out, I saw the pile and had the same thought: everything he owns fits inside a Toyota Corolla.
Last Friday, I arrived at work early. The parking lot was empty, the way it is at 7:45 in the morning. I turned off the ignition, but left the battery on so I could listen to NPR. Then I opened all four doors and got to work.
I started with the clothing — all of it gathered into two large trash bags — dumping it out on the asphalt. Then, I examined every shirt, sweater, every pair of sweatpants: if it was stained or torn or just old, it went in one bag. If it could be passed down to Matthew or donated, I folded it and set it on the back seat.
While I was working, the landscaping company pulled up. Six men got out with leaf blowers and made a lot of noise for twenty minutes. They must have wondered what I was doing — a woman standing in an empty parking lot at dawn, surrounded by clothing and personal items. Maybe they thought I lived in my car — that I’d slept in the parking lot. Who knows?
When they left I could hear the radio again and remembered the battery. I tried the ignition. Click click. Nothing. I sat there for a moment, the key in my hand, thinking: I cannot deal with this. I cannot deal with one more thing. I tried again. It turned over.
There were only five or six cartons. Files from his work as an advocacy coordinator. A carton of medical supplies: syringes, alcohol swabs, gauze pads, latex gloves. I found vials of injectable vitamins. I guess Nora was giving them to him. Toothpaste, ibuprofen, Gold Bond powder. All of this, I tossed into the dumpster.
And then a small box of odds and ends: a brass R paperweight, my father’s initial. It was certainly a gift — who’d given it to him? When? Why had he saved it? There was an empty picture frame, some pens.
And at the bottom: Cerulean’s little sock.
Wow. I stopped, holding it in the center of my palm. How in the world had Dad gotten this? A tiny white baby sock, small as a finger puppet from my sister’s son. Dad’s last grandchild. Writing this, I’m still wondering: How did this get into Dad’s box of treasures? How did I know it was Cerulean’s? I can’t remember now. It seemed extraordinarily precious for a moment. I set it aside for my sister.
When I was finished, I had three piles: Things to save. Things to ask Dad about. Things that seemed to matter but I didn’t know what to do with.
I put this much smaller collection back in the car, locked the doors and went in to the office.
I made myself a cup of tea and sat down at my desk. I began opening angel letters — that was my job then. Reading stories of all the miraculous ways the angels take care of us and making a weekly column out of one or two of them.
More sorting.
In the mail that day, there were a few big miracles: rescues, life-changing interventions. But the vast majority, as always, were little things: a visit from a bird or animal that reminded someone of a loved one, a strange coincidence that led to love, the sense of a presence, companioning someone through a hard thing. These are the things people remember, write down, and mail to a stranger at a magazine who reads miracle mail for a living.
If I had any doubt — and I no longer do — that angels support and guide us, my experience these past months would have set them all to rest. Though it’s been a struggle, it’s never been unsupported. Dad's been placed into the hands of the gentlest, most supportive people imaginable — the doctors and nurses, the health care aides and physical therapists. And I've been supported too, I can feel it, by my own miracle team.
