When he wears a short-sleeved shirt, my husband likes me to fold back the sleeves of the t-shirt he wears underneath. It's something I've done for him off and on though our married life.
He asked me to do it today. As I wondered aloud about folding the surplus material out or in, using double or single folds, he said, "Do it the way you always do it." The tiny trace of impatience in his voice made me smile; he thought I was fussing unduly.
But it had been a long time. Forgetful, I used only a single fold. We had been driving for just a few minutes when he said at a stop light, "It's coming undone," and held out his arm. "Can you reach it?"
By twisting around in my seat, I could. I folded the sleeve outward this time and doubled the fold. It felt right; I knew this was how I used to do it. The t-shirt sleeve would stay in place and wouldn't show. When we stopped and got out of the car, he held out the other arm wordlessly; I knew exactly what to do. As I finished, I could almost feel his relief and comfort, and I was content.
Doing this simple service for my dear husband brought me a moment of flooding joy as the bow of memory drew taut and launched me on an arrow that took me back to the first time I did this, more than twenty-five years ago. We were newly married then, just getting to know one another's peccadilloes, which are so familiar now.
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