Socks

Socks. It’s the socks I can’t unsee as the police officer waves me past the body of the cyclist as they drape a white sheet over her, head to toe. Purple and red shooting stars and hearts. How many women would wear those socks on a hot summer’s day?

I slather mayonnaise on whole grain bread, still seeing those socks, my hands trembling.

“Don’t you love them? Aren’t they the best socks? I’ve bought five pairs.”

Socks. Jilly’s laugh, her red hair shining, blue eyes sparkling.

A quick glance at the clock. She’s thirty-two minutes late.

Did I goad her into riding a bike here? “You’re plumping up. Ride your bike.”

“It might rain. I’ll drive.”

The doorbell proves my undoing even before I see the officer.

Jilly will never again waltz through the back door, a Sondheim song perched on her lips, silly knee-high socks dancing on her feet.

And, it seems, even the birds stop singing.

end

Sascha D.