Argyle

I wore my dead grandpa’s socks today. I wear them all the time, actually. I didn’t know him that well. At least, not well enough to still be wearing his socks fourteen years after he died.

I really like the socks. It’s just one pair of socks, actually. They’re gray and black argyle. Thin. Mid-calf high. I wear them with my boots. They’re worn in the big toe. I have my dad’s abnormally big toe. He has his dad’s abnormally big toe. So it makes sense that my grandpa’s socks are worn in the big toe.

The thought of purchasing a new pair of thin, argyle socks to wear with my boots crosses my mind all the time. Every time I wear them, actually. I never do it though. These work just fine. They haven’t fallen apart yet.  

I think about how weird it is that I wear my dead grandpa’s socks so often and I didn’t even know him that well. What would he think if he knew I did this? Is it weird to anyone else that I wear my dead grandpa’s dress socks even after all this time and that they haven’t fallen apart yet and they aren’t even sentimental to me? Are they sentimental to me?

Rhetorical.

I don’t like to answer my own questions. I don’t like it when other people try to answer my own rhetorical questions either. I prefer to just pontificate about things and let it hang there. Let it just sit there like cigarette smoke in the middle of the living room while you’re smoking on the couch. Stare at it. Watch it slowly move around, morphing in shape, fading away.

You really shouldn’t smoke in the house. Or at all, actually. It could kill you. Then I’d be wearing your socks for the next fourteen years. I don’t even like socks. My feet are claustrophobic. But that’s a story for another time.

The end.