The Sock That Outlasted October

December tenth and I finally did the laundry. Not the catch-up load, the real one. The one where you move things that have been sitting in the basket long enough to need refolding before they go in the wash.

I found a sock. One sock, no partner, tucked into the corner of the basket under a pair of jeans I am fairly sure I last wore before Thanksgiving. I held it up for a second just to confirm it was real. It was. I have genuinely no idea where its match went. This is the mystery no one prepares you for when you move out, not the rent, not the grocery math, not remembering to clean the lint trap. The rogue sock. The unanswerable rogue sock.

sock reckoning, 2009

I sorted everything on the floor because the folding table was, generously, at capacity. There is something almost meditative about matching socks when you let it be boring instead of fighting the boredom. I got through half of it listening to the radio, the heat clicking on and off, and nothing else. It was fine. It was genuinely fine.

the plant is still alive, week three

The plant on the windowsill is still alive, for the record. I noticed it while I was carrying a stack of folded things toward the counter. Just sitting there, small and green, doing whatever it is a plant does in December. I watered it once last week. That might have been the first time. I feel okay about this.