We have this thing in our home where little pink and polka-dotted socks roll inside-out and then beach themselves all over the house, apparently in a last-ditch effort to enjoy life before succumbing to a long, slow journey to the laundry.
I find these socks, these mournful little piles of cotton, in all rooms. It’s heart-breaking. Who will take a stand and care for their lost plight?
Sometimes, pedestrians walk past without a second glance. Cold, unfeeling monsters. In cute pajamas.
Oftentimes, the socks stick together against all odds, defying the inevitable, and link hands, for one last fling.
This is life from here. Lots of little girl socks. All over the house. And a lone woman crying, “I am not the maid!” This falls on deaf ears. And naked feet.