The waffle iron.
Various men.
A metal rake.
And then, this week a sock reappeared, mysteriously, on my dining room table, blue striped. All casual, as if only gone out on a lark and had just then sashayed back in. I didn't know that missing socks ever did actually return, but there it was. In the cotton.
Oh, I get it. My list of missing things, that I need, or love or miss is long and I'm beginning to wonder how I can keep losing them, or hiding them from myself. My bag of mismatched socks never shrinks, and I haven't had one turn itself in yet. I hold out hope.
ReplyDeleteLife is mysterious, yes?
Mel, after my husband died, I threw away a big bag of mismatched white cotton socks. I felt incredibly bold! He never threw a thing away, so this was a kind of anarchy in the post-marriage days. Don't know if I'll ever let a bag of socks accumulate like that again. Maybe it's something we're allowed to do once in a lifetime. So now, I've taken my turn. Yes, mysterious!
DeleteI once co-wrote a musical comedy piece to perform for children called "Where's the Sock?" Do they go into the washing machine and then through some space-time portal to a parallel universe? If only that blue-striped sock could talk and tell you of its wondrous adventures!
ReplyDeleteBen Hur, I suspect that the one and only story that striped sock would tell (if it could) was of a very long and dark time in the bottom of my son's clean laundry pile. But then again, maybe it was exotic down there in the dark!
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