She Didn't Know

She didn't know it when they met. She couldn't have. They only spoke online, so she wouldn't have had a chance to see.

She didn't know it when they were dating. She wouldn't have. Their minds were focused on different things.

And she probably didn't know it when they married. She certainly didn't fully comprehend.

But at some point, she must have realized. She must have finally known. It must have occurred to her. His clutter must have become obvious. At some point, she must have seen it for what it really was: piles and boxes and stacks of stuff.

And he knows this. He knows that she just keeps it to herself: those piles and boxes and endless stacks of stuff. He knows that she knows but says not a word.

So at a pace that's barely noticeable but a pace that's positive nevertheless, he clears this clutter, unpacks a box, reduces one of the various piles. And in the garage, where the piles loom high, empty space begins to appear.

Where boxes once stood, there is room for a lawn mower again. And gradually they can walk freely once more -- after a fashion.

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