THE SHRINKING CLOTHES

THE SHRINKING CLOTHES

September 30, 2025

 

He’s growing so fast it feels like the clothes are shrinking.  

I was doing laundry today.  
The baskets and machines are routine for me,  
but for him it’s a game, a chance to help.  

He pulls clothes from the washing machine,  
dropping them to the floor like offerings  
so I can lift them into the dryer.  
He pulls clothes from the dryer too,  
tossing them down in a soft pile  
so I can fold or hang them.  
His way of joining in,  
his way of saying he belongs in the work of our home.  

Today I noticed the clothes looked smaller.  
The sleeves and legs no longer match the boy.  
They’ve already fallen behind him.  

I swear I was today years old  
when I realized pants can turn into shorts overnight.  

And I noticed he looked taller.  
Not just in numbers,  
but in reach, in stride, in confidence.  

He can climb onto our bed now.  
One knee pressed into the sand-colored upholstery,  
a push of determination,  
and suddenly he’s on top of the mattress.  
He settles there like it’s nothing new,  
but I know it is.  

He couldn’t do that before we left for Mammoth five days ago.  
Five days, and everything shifted.  

The laundry tells its own story—  
shirts smaller,  
boy taller.  
And while the clothes whisper where he once was,  
his steps show me where he’s going.  

Five days away, and he returns taller.  
Five days away, and the clothes no longer fit.  

I fold them gently,  
knowing they are already memory.  
But memory is not the only record.  

The record is him,  
alive and climbing,  
making the bed his summit,  
making the room his new horizon.