I first noticed yellow socks rolling towards us,
skimming the parking lot pavement.
Dad quickly stopped to unlock a footrest
and prop up her legs—
ten wiggling toes quite pleased with their freedom,
but too tired to remember why they were six feet away
from three pairs of anxious eyes
saying goodbye.
The yellow socks had white grippy treads on the bottom,
although she soon retired from walking.
Instead, refrigerator trips were delegated to Dad.
How many glasses of orange juice have you had today?
A hospice-hesitant three fingers.
No, Mom, you’ve had five.
She used to water it down.
Do you want any of her scarves?
Actually, do you remember those yellow socks?
The hospital ones? Yeah. You might pay a $10,000 bill and die, but hey! Free socks!
That sounds like a Jack Handy quote.
I’ll put your name on them.
