Socks

Socks are the quietest neighbors of our bodies. They don't speak, don't demand attention, and quietly reside inside our shoes, accompanying our feet on every journey. As a child, socks always came in pairs. Mom would buy them, fold them neatly, and put them in the drawer. White, gray, striped, or with cartoon characters. Back then, I didn't understand why socks had left and right, since they looked identical. Later, I realized. Some socks would stretch out with wear, and then a bit of extra fabric would bunch up around the toes, making walking feel awkward, like a small knot in your heart. I best remember the socks for gym class. They were white, the soles would get dirty, and the tips would fray. When I took them off at home, Mom would always frown and say, "Did you go for a run or a fight?" Then she'd toss them into the washing machine. Socks back then were consumables, things you replaced every day. No one particularly cherished them. As I got a little older, I started buying my own socks. That's when I discovered how much there was to know about socks—thick, thin, short, long, athletic, dressy. You need thick socks in winter, thin socks in summer; dark socks with dress shoes, colorful socks with sneakers. Socks became a choice, a statement, a way of expressing who you wanted to be that day. But some socks, you can never throw away. The pair that walked with you through a certain period, its heel worn thin, its sole pilled, its elastic stretched out. You can't bear to part with them. Because those socks remember the paths you've walked—remember the nervousness of your first job interview in dress shoes, remember walking a long way to see someone on a winter day, remember getting blisters on your feet...