Basket of Dreams

The metaphor of the giant basket of socks does not escape me. This is my life. Unmatched. Ill-fitting. Dirt-stained. Tumbling out over the edges. Irreverent. And a lot like the whac-a-mole game at the county fair. Never ending.

I know that a pair of socks requires two feet. And when the feet are done wearing the socks, one would assume the socks could be gracious enough to stick together through the process of laundry and drying and folding. But it never happens.

I’m not sure if every house has a misfit sock basket, but I certainly do. I dump them all on the floor every once in a while and try to help them partner up. Last time I did that I ended up with 87 mismatched socks. Really.

Which leads me to believe that I live in a land of witchery. How is it possible that after matching all the socks in the house, I have so many left? It’s like the loaves and the fishes. They magically multiply overnight or anytime I turn my back, it seems. Considering that my children would wear the same socks every day if I let them, until the socks could walk without the feet, I wonder why I even have so many pair in the first place?

And I don’t know whether to focus on the extra ones in the basket, or the missing ones that are mocking me. Where do they go? It is common knowledge that dryers eat socks, a Venus fly-trap of sorts. Except without the need for the feet themselves. Or maybe the socks run for the hills sans occupant, afraid of the job that little boys have in store for them, or the adventures they might see. I once saw a man at a party with a sock clinging to the back of his sweater, but unless my friends really don’t like me, I don’t think my native socks are seeking asylum through sweater voyages.

So that leaves me with a giant basket of socks. And the biggest question is what to do about it. I cannot act on this sock basket and its contents, because I know as soon as I throw a sock away, its match will turn up. And it costs good money to buy all these pairs of socks, money which I do not choose to waste. And so they sit there, languishing between usefulness and irony. No more helpful to cold feet than the harsh plastic in which they rest.

And this is my life. So many things beyond use. So many piles and packages and bags full of memories and magic that might be useful some day or may be way beyond their prime. But they are shoved in dark corners in the basement and the garage and my heart. I light a match to my memories, not sure if to illuminate them or burn them to the ground. The fire doesn’t take, and those parts of me tumble like worm-filled apples piled in the orchard’s October sun. And I’m not sure how long I have until the tumbling apples turn rotten or the winter snows obliterate the view. And I’m not sure how much energy I have left to look under sofas and in the recesses of my spirit. And I just don’t know how the pieces will fit when the fire burns low and the ashes remain.