Shiny things, sparkly things. Coins. Long golden hairs. Gum wrappers. A purple paintbrush tucked under a bag of apples. Socks. Socks in every imaginable and unimaginable place. Years of socks—the strays, the mate-less, the crumpled athletics, the handknits, the fluffy chenilles I can’t remember which belongs to who. Socks that are slowly getting larger, measuring time in ways I can hardly face, in ways I can’t forget.
