Socks

By Rosie Good

When I visit home, I never bring socks. At first it was an accident but now, I think, it is on purpose. There is something calming about rifling through my mother’s sock drawer, something so intimate about all those rolled pairs, ordered and disordered at the same time. She is just like me, I think in those moments, and this is something I think rarely. To imagine her choosing some and unrolling them, pulling them over her feet, yesterday, today, tomorrow. Twenty-six years ago. Early twenties. Choosing socks. Different to me; married, expecting a baby; but somehow the same. Choosing socks to walk the dog. Choosing socks to drive to the shops. When I’m wearing my mother’s socks, I think about her wrestling with my wriggling toes, late for school. Mummy, how do you know which sock goes on which foot? I’m just really clever. Today I will drive away in my mother’s socks and she might wonder where that spotted pair have gone. I hope I remember to bring them home for her, next time. But also, it feels nice to wear them.