I like socks. I buy socks. All kinds of socks. Some because I have to. And some because I want to. The I want to socks are the most fun. Every now and then the I have to socks become the I want to socks.
I have a large, brown cardboard sock box. It sits in my closet. It contains socks. Lots of socks. Because there is lots of socks in my house. The socks are many colours. None of them match. Because washers eat socks. Because children eat socks. Because for some strange reason, people come to my home and like to leave behind one sock. I imagine it is because they might have had to eat their other sock. Sometimes, I forget to feed people. No one ever admits to owning these spare sock. But I would not admit to eating socks, either.
All the spare socks are put in the sock box.
Then the sock box is ignored until there are no clean pairs of socks to be found in the house. Then the kids and I play a quick game of Make-An-Almost pair.
I remember back to last winter. I remember the day on the bus. The dry day. A nice day. A blue day. A soon-to-be spring day. I was writing in my journal. No one sat beside me on the two-rider seat. So, I took off my shoes and pressed my back against the window and put my sock feet up on the empty red seat. And kept writing in my journal.
In a pause, I looked at my green-clad feet. A matching pair. In that moment, I wished I was wearing orange socks.
I did not own orange socks.
I decided I wanted a pair of orange socks.
I looked for orange socks. At many different stores.
Nobody makes the perfect pair of orange socks; I have since discovered. Not even Wal-Mart. But I kept on searching.
Last night I noticed a brown pair of socks hanging off the back of my brown couch.
I have seen those socks before, I thought to myself. I knew right away who left them behind.
I smiled when I picked up the socks. The socks that did not match.
But they were a pair.
I liked both the socks. And since I like socks; I decided to wear those brown boy socks today.
They felt nice and kept my feet warm, too. I have decided to claim them as my own They are a perfect fit.
I am not giving them back.
I have a large, brown cardboard sock box. It sits in my closet. It contains socks. Lots of socks. Because there is lots of socks in my house. The socks are many colours. None of them match. Because washers eat socks. Because children eat socks. Because for some strange reason, people come to my home and like to leave behind one sock. I imagine it is because they might have had to eat their other sock. Sometimes, I forget to feed people. No one ever admits to owning these spare sock. But I would not admit to eating socks, either.
All the spare socks are put in the sock box.
Then the sock box is ignored until there are no clean pairs of socks to be found in the house. Then the kids and I play a quick game of Make-An-Almost pair.
I remember back to last winter. I remember the day on the bus. The dry day. A nice day. A blue day. A soon-to-be spring day. I was writing in my journal. No one sat beside me on the two-rider seat. So, I took off my shoes and pressed my back against the window and put my sock feet up on the empty red seat. And kept writing in my journal.
In a pause, I looked at my green-clad feet. A matching pair. In that moment, I wished I was wearing orange socks.
I did not own orange socks.
I decided I wanted a pair of orange socks.
I looked for orange socks. At many different stores.
Nobody makes the perfect pair of orange socks; I have since discovered. Not even Wal-Mart. But I kept on searching.
Last night I noticed a brown pair of socks hanging off the back of my brown couch.
I have seen those socks before, I thought to myself. I knew right away who left them behind.
I smiled when I picked up the socks. The socks that did not match.
But they were a pair.
I liked both the socks. And since I like socks; I decided to wear those brown boy socks today.
They felt nice and kept my feet warm, too. I have decided to claim them as my own They are a perfect fit.
I am not giving them back.
Comments
You make me smile.
Thank you for your words.
Q
I like this one. Can I use it for the next Storyblogging Carnival? Feel free to e-mail me at dscrank-at-alum.mit.edu, or just post a comment on my blog. I haven't hosted the last couple of carnivals, else I might have been begging you for submissions then, too.
Thanks,
Donald
Just let me know.
Q
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