SLICE #14- UNIFORMS

When he was a little guy, he loved uniforms.

He couldn't wait to get his first football jersey.
He slept in the shoulder pads and helmet for three nights straight.
He loved the kelly green basketball shirt.
Didn't take his high school letter jacket off for four months.

Even so, I am a little surprised at his reaction to the new work uniforms.
He usually doesn't want to talk about work.
Or actually much of anything else.
At least not to me.

Tonight, though, he is waiting at the dining room table
when I walk in the door from work.
I wonder what might be wrong.
How was work? I say, steeling myself for the bad news.

"Good," he says.
"It was good.
I got my uniforms."

He goes into his bedroom
and comes out with an armload of clothes on hangers.
Six pairs of black pants. Creased.
Six shirts.
Three short sleeved.
Three long sleeved.
His name.
Spelled correctly on a patch sewn over the the right pocket
Certified technician over the left.
As far as I know, he hasn't been certified in anything.
But if this patch
embroidered on a patch on his back
make it feel true
so be it.

he tells me that the last place told him
he would get uniforms in 30 days.
And he worked there way longer than that.
But still didn't get a uniform.

He tells me that most people leave their uniforms at work.
They get washed there.
(I think the car dealership probably has a uniform service).
But he has brought his uniforms home
Will wash them himself.
I imagine the grease and grime from a car place.
The hours it will take to iron those creases.
And suggest he might want to take the uniforms back.
And let them do the washing and ironing.
He considers it
and decides he will take three back
and leave three at home.
Just to make sure he always has one available.

He is so proud of the uniforms.
He belongs somewhere.
He has worth.

My mother heart lifts.

Finally.

A tiny success.

Uniforms.