Just Socks

I just discovered this in one of my random notebooks: another work in progress I guess – this is a little more free-flowing thought – and really, sometimes I just miss my Grandma…

Just Socks

I have a pair of socks – ridiculous thin, threadbare socks with pictures of coffee mugs
with a hole (or holes)
in the toe (or toes)

But I hesitate to throw them away.

I inherited them from my grandma in 2004 – (perhaps too official of a statement)
I really just took them from her drawer – the day after her funeral,
while my mother and Aunt Marge sifted through
Grandma’s belongings: clothes, jewelry, books, socks…

My grandpa stayed safely in his study

I don’t wear them anymore – until I forget about the holes and put them on and when I do, I remember why I don’t and then again, why I don’t throw them away…

so many holes
so long ago… eight years

Who knew how long she had them
or where she even bought them (probably at a garage sale)

I’d never seen her wear them

Because really: Grandma always wore thick socks
with big chunky
bright white shoes

She moved in those shoes
like she would
live forever
in those shoes

And we were all surprised to find ourselves
sorting through
her clothes –
the blue elastic-waisted pants
the thin flower-print shirts

And there’s Mitzy, Grandma’s shitzu, panting by the door
mustache-covered in three day’s feeding
watching us
wondering, I’m sure,
where is Grandma?

We too sit watching, wondering around the drop-leaf table
eating through canned beans,
homemade grape juice,
and freezer jam – made in 1994
by Grandma’s hands –
– still good
– still Grandma

Those sturdy white shoes, standing on the iron grate;
the whole house, still Grandma,
always was, always will be

It’s just socks
but I feel sorry as I watch them
float thinly into the plastic bag
ready to be taken away
on Wednesday, garbage day.

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