It’s a sock exchange, exclaimed Bob.
Tossing a pair of black socks with gray heels into the laundry.
Whose socks are these anyway? he asked.
I don’t recognize them.
I looked over.
Said, you mean, you wore them anyway?
He nodded.
What is it about socks?
Liora left an unmatched one at our house.
After a weekend visit.
A few months back, Asher took home a pair of Bob’s.
Rolling them into his own stockpile.
Often a sock is missing right out of the dryer.
To be found in some unlikely spot.
A sleeve, pant leg of another garment.
But wearing another’s socks and not knowing whose?
That rises to another level.
It must be Uriel’s, I said.
Recalling his visit in September.
Mystery solved, concluded Bob.
Flinging them both into a basket.
To wash before mailing back.
Though Uri never noticed.
Likely, he lost track.
But, just before Bob sent them,
he shot a photo to Uriel,
who texted he didn’t know them.
They didn’t ring a bell.
Which, in turn, jogged Bob’s memory
to last summer’s trip to Maine.
Having to buy necessities
when bags never came off the plane.
So, on our way to Bristol,
we stopped in Freeport’s shops,
where Bob bought some underwear
and two stylish pairs of socks!
Lynn Benjamin
October 11, 2023
