Memory & Moments

I forgot my socks. It's cold here, near the sea, foggy -

not what I'd expect. The internet lies.

My mother loved socks.

Everyone had to put a pair on when they came into her house.

Absolutely mandatory.

"You'll dirty the carpet," she'd bark.

(not that they had any visitors, except me)

Flashback. 2005. Florida

Dad calls on the phone "mom has had a heart attack"

"no need to come," "she's in hospital," "I'm waiting for her."

We hop the next plane, walk into their house.

It smells of mould and rotten food, the carpet filthy.

I walk in with my sandals.

My mother never came back.

I'm sitting on the bed in my parent's bedroom.

I count 164 pairs - crazy.

There are nylon socks, blue socks, thick socks & thin ones.

A darning needle & thread in the bottom of the basket.

She has been intending to fix them,

saving, waiting for time, to find time, to fix them -

but she never did.

She just collected socks,

and then she died.