“It is not even noon yet, but I hereby surrender myself to the universe,” I cried, to Abigail, as if a 16 year-old would actually understand the exasperation of a 40 year-old widow juggling both grief and bad luck.

“Mom, you need to chill, it’s just a jersey” she callously suggested, as I broke down in tears in the parking lot at a middle school soccer match.

Not my finest moment.

Today started out like any other Saturday. I woke to find Jacob already in the yard practicing with his soccer ball. Everyday was soccer, soccer, and more soccer for him. Soccer after school, soccer on the weekend, and sometimes soccer first thing in the morning. I watched him run dribbling drills, but yesterday, penalty kicks. As I made myself coffee, I wondered how long he had been up, quickly followed by a question of how I didn’t hear him.

I used to drive Jacob and his friends every Saturday to their games, but Mrs. Fletcher was pushy enough to offer every weekend since Del’s funeral. I sipped my coffee, burning my tongue, feeling a bit salty at how she insisted we needed the help. She kept saying, “No, no, Maggie, you look dreadful. Please let me do this for you. Don and I will drive the boys, you need some time for yourself,” she’d barked at Thursday’s game. I wished I had burned my tongue then as it wouldn’t have hurt so much to bite it. I rolled my eyes as I heard her honk outside. Jacob heard her, too, and ran in to grab his things.

“Bye, Mom! Oh and Mrs. Fletcher said she’d take me and Joel for pizza after the game.”

“Of course she did,” I muttered, since she failed to mention that before I slipped $20 into his soccer bag last night, “hey, good luck, Jakey, go kick some butt!” I planted a kiss on his head as he ran out, with the same precision as the scientists in NASA who land rockets on flying asteroids. As I stood in the doorway, sipping my coffee as they drove off, I wondered what Mrs. Fletcher was thinking as I stood there in my green silken robe, with checkered holiday pajama pants sticking out underneath.

“Dreadful,” I mocked, and returned to the safety of my home, slamming the door on her pity.

Today was also laundry day, so at least I had that. I sat in the laundry room and stared at the looming pile of clothes to fold with determination. This was my Everest. Abigail and I have an agreement that she washes the clothes and I fold them; it had been her choice. I never liked folding before - Del did. For years he tried to teach me his technique, and for years we laughed over my bumbling and graceless attempts. We simply agreed I was more suited to washing and he to folding. But in the four months since his passing, I finally mastered it. I grabbed Jacob’s red soccer jersey - of course it’s inside out - laid it on the table and began the folding process. Left sleeve to center, right sleeve to center, bottom up a third, and then again. I added it to the towering pile on the table and admired my work.

“How’d I do, Del?” I felt my throat well before I noticed the tears, and inhaled deeply to quell them both. I shook my head, sat up straight, and let myself become lost in the robotic motions and repetition. An entire hour passed in silent motion before found Jacob’s white soccer jersey, frustrated to see it still somehow covered in grass stains despite the pre-wash soak and overpriced detergent.

No one told me when I had children that a 12 year-old go would through this many shirts in a week, or that I’d be the one folding each and every one. But I suppose we’re all coping in our own way. Laundry was my choice - I felt close to Del.

Jacob’s team wears the white jerseys on Saturdays.

I gasped, “Today is Saturday!” I bolted out of my seat, but in my rush, knocked into the table just enough to send my perfectly organized piles onto the floor in a heap, the coffee mug following right behind. Hearing the crash, Abigail came running in, panicked. I didn’t even know she was awake.

“Mom, what happened? Are you okay?” Her face drained of color, but I noticed her shoulders slumped in relief when she saw the scene, despite the attitude that followed. “Great, I guess coffee-covered clothes means more laundry for me,” she sulked.

She’d found Del outside. He was cleaning the gutters, leaned over too far, and fell off; at least, that’s what the police concluded. The ladder crashed on the ground, and she had been the only one home to hear it.

“Yes we can deal with this later, we need to get to the soccer field. I packed Jacob the wrong jersey” I thought of what Mrs. Fletcher was thinking now, seeing Jacob as the only one to unpack his Sunday-blue jersey on a Saturday. “What an idiot his mother must be,” she’d think, “that woman can’t handle simple tasks anymore, she’s slipping away.”

I quickly changed out of my pajamas into a more socially acceptable jeans and sweatshirt, and dragged Abigail into the car with the jersey in my bag. The field was only twenty minutes away, but we’d managed to make it in ten. Del would be proud, I thought with a smile.

Abigail and I ran up the hill from the lot to the field - it was much steeper than I remembered - and the crowd wasn’t visible from the car. There was a staircase nearby, but we were already halfway up, winded, and committed. I could hear the whistle of the referee, and in the swell of voices, Mrs. Fletcher cheering on her own son. I took sharp breaths, slipping on the dewy grass, fueled only on anticipation of my triumphant appearance at the top. She’d feel awful lousy for thinking I’m a bad mother, wouldn’t she? Would she be climbing a grassy Everest, short of breath and sweating, to deliver her son the proper uniform? Maybe, or maybe she wouldn’t have gotten it wrong in the first place.

“Jacob!” I tried to yell, but only air came out. I raised the white jersey into the air in celebration, but stopped in my tracks.

Everyone was in blue. Why was everyone in blue? “Why are they wearing blue?” I shrieked at my daughter, panic-stricken.

“It’s Sunday, Mom,” she whispered, “They always wear blue on Sundays.”

Again, I felt my throat well before I noticed the tears and began the slow, shameful walk back down the hill, slipping not once, not twice, but three times in the dewy grass before making it to the car. Abigail, smart enough to follow on the stairs only several feet away, silently sat with me in the car as I cried, Jacob’s white jersey still in my hands. “It is not even noon yet, but I hereby surrender myself to the universe.”

“Mom, you need to chill. You don’t have to fight your sadness to stay strong. We’re still sad, either way. My therapist says if we always fight against our grief, it’ll keep pummeling us to the ground; but if we simply ride it like a wave, it’ll bring us back to shore.”

“You’ve got your father’s brain,” I whispered as I hugged my daughter, letting the grief wash over me and pass.