also, repost.
Your Socks
Last night I spent several
hours bundling the socks
you will never wear again.
Many of them were missing their
pair. For those I found another
single and bundled them together. A
few were worn thin like
gauze. I bundled them up.
Others had stains: mud,
grass. I also bundled those. Some of your dress
pairs were bleach-stained, spotted
pink and white on socks otherwise shockingly
black. I bundled those up, too. On some the
elastic had given up, so much that your thin
ankles would not have fit snugly anymore anyway.
Those got bundled. Some were simply too small to have fit
you anymore, pairs you would have worn much earlier in your
life, and I bundled those and set them aside.
A few felt stiff, and I can imagine you reaching for
one, stretching your arm out from your bed to the dresser in the
night, always with the covers on. Those I bundled, too.
Some were summer socks whose tops probably just barely peeked out of your
cleats, made for your to run in and tackle in and sweat in. There’s a faint sweet
odor that rises from these, and I bundled them and shoved them back far in your
drawer, hoping the scent might invade the whole lot. I thought to myself you should have done this more often, maybe then there would be more socks, more sweet-smelling stiff stained socks I could fill all your drawers to bursting with and still have more left over to leave in random places in the house like you might have done, like in the bathroom or scattered around the laundry room.
I know sooner or later I’ll come in here and purge your room of old socks. Sooner or later I’ll be able to let the socks go, come in here with a sturdy black garbage bag and fill it with all the stuff you don’t need anymore and I won’t want around. I’ll probably keep a pair or two of the cleaner ones-just to keep up appearances. After all, I still have your shirts and jeans and underwear and sweaters to fold.
Last night I spent several
hours bundling the socks
you will never wear again.
Many of them were missing their
pair. For those I found another
single and bundled them together. A
few were worn thin like
gauze. I bundled them up.
Others had stains: mud,
grass. I also bundled those. Some of your dress
pairs were bleach-stained, spotted
pink and white on socks otherwise shockingly
black. I bundled those up, too. On some the
elastic had given up, so much that your thin
ankles would not have fit snugly anymore anyway.
Those got bundled. Some were simply too small to have fit
you anymore, pairs you would have worn much earlier in your
life, and I bundled those and set them aside.
A few felt stiff, and I can imagine you reaching for
one, stretching your arm out from your bed to the dresser in the
night, always with the covers on. Those I bundled, too.
Some were summer socks whose tops probably just barely peeked out of your
cleats, made for your to run in and tackle in and sweat in. There’s a faint sweet
odor that rises from these, and I bundled them and shoved them back far in your
drawer, hoping the scent might invade the whole lot. I thought to myself you should have done this more often, maybe then there would be more socks, more sweet-smelling stiff stained socks I could fill all your drawers to bursting with and still have more left over to leave in random places in the house like you might have done, like in the bathroom or scattered around the laundry room.
I know sooner or later I’ll come in here and purge your room of old socks. Sooner or later I’ll be able to let the socks go, come in here with a sturdy black garbage bag and fill it with all the stuff you don’t need anymore and I won’t want around. I’ll probably keep a pair or two of the cleaner ones-just to keep up appearances. After all, I still have your shirts and jeans and underwear and sweaters to fold.