By Richard King Perkins II
I’ve been wearing a dead man’s socks for three years now. His wife was young and still could barely believe she was selling all his clothing, belts and hats at a garage sale. The small collections of things they’d put together in their few years of marriage. Seahorses and dreamcatchers and healthy eating cookbooks. And a beer-flat box full of rolled socks planted upright, asking five dollars for thirty pairs— but she just really wanted them to be gone so I got them all for two bucks. I imagine some of them were still from his days as a single guy, nearly worn through, elastic shot, frayed around the outjutting of an anklebone. Others were newer, barely used, perhaps a literal stocking stuffer from his practical-minded wife who knew he’d keep wearing the oldest pairs until his toes burst through the end caps. And the Kelly green socks, a living island amidst the greys, browns and blacks, I’ve made sure to wear them the last few St. Patrick’s days, just like I’m sure he did, hiking up my pant leg just to let a few people see that I’m part of the gang. I knew when I bought the lot I’d been entrusted with a great responsibility: to wear them nearly as well as the man before me. But still, despite my best efforts, each year a few more unmatched socks get placed in the back of the drawer, stagnant, alone; doubtful at being properly mated again