Stripedy

I wore my striped socks today. No one could see them, because I pulled my black boots on over, but they were there, just as they had been for years on years. They are completely worn through. In fact, even now, lying on my bed with the blue curtains shut, I can see two of my left foot toes peeking out next to me. Many, many times before a stoop sale, my mom's gone through the sock drawer with me and stopped on these rainbow dusted ones: "Hey, aren't these ready to get rid of? Should I throw them away?" Before she could say anything else, I always grabbed the socks and yanked them back towards me. They remind me of a time before I knew what curse words meant, before I had gaping purple bags under my eyes, before I cared if people say my mismatched rainbow socks. I wore boots over, covered all of that old, wrinkled fabric. So maybe I am ready to throw them away, in the trash along with the one Barbie doll I owned, my chewed-up stuffed dog Sleepy, and the dress I wore to my fourth grade graduation. Goodbye, socks. (Hello, stockings.)