Well Worn
The sock drawer is full to the brim of socks balled into pairs, including crisp white athletic socks, cotton ones dyed a deep plum purple, and decorative ones with embroidered Union Jack flags on the front. Among all these socks still with their soul mates lays a lone one. Old, gray with faded colored stripes in the middle, and too big now for its owner’s foot, it lays awaiting its fate. What now, after its perfect match has been lost, after being buried under a sea of more desirable socks, after not being worn for what feels like centuries? Doomed to sit in a dark and dank drawer to await the end of the world, or at least until the owner decides to sort through their dresser and throw away unwanted garments. It sees no future, no hope, only the pairs and pairs of socks suffocating it, constantly taunting and succeeding where it has failed. It longs to feel something, anything at all.
On the yellowed carpet floor, next to the dark and grainy wood of the dresser, sit a pair of converse sneakers. They were white, once. Sparkling white, like teeth after toothpaste. Now, days upon days of dirt and grime mask the beauty of the once brand new sneakers. The soles are well worn, the laces disintegrating into smaller strings. Yes, they are well worn, but they are also well loved. The same cannot be said for the lost sock at the bottom of the sock drawer. Each night, the shoes await their partners, the feet, to descend from the bed, adorn fresh socks, and slip into the worn canvas, ready to take on the adventure of the day. Despite whatever the feet may take them and how stinky they get, the shoes are happy to have a companion, happy to be used. Something to look forward to each day, deft fingers tying the laces and the sights and sounds of the outside world. On days when the feet choose a different pair of shoes, the Converse sit patiently by the dresser, albeit heartbroken. They have met all the pairs of socks, bright blue ones the color of the sky, ones with little royal palace guards strewn across, and plain, crisp white ones, whiter than the shoes themselves. But they are all the same, the shoes realize. They may physically walk together, but their souls do not. That is, until the next fateful day.
In the morning, with the pale sun higher in the sky than usual, the feet had rushed around, threw the sock drawer open, and discovered no clean socks left. No fresh pairs to wear, besides the sock that had lost its other half. In resignation, the feet decided one sock was better than none. The foot, one barefoot and one adorned with the dull stripes, slipped quickly into the Converse and proceeded out the door. The little sock was overjoyed. Finally, it had seen the light of day again, and was given another chance to be worn, to be used. The sock had never seen the dirtied white shoes before, but immediately recognized a kindred well worn soul. Both fading, aging, and burning out, they were drawn to each other like a moth to a flame. If only, the sock thought, if only it had been out of the drawer sooner. If only, the shoes thought, if only this sock had been chosen to be worn more often. Never before had the shoes walked so well with another sock. Perhaps this was meant to be. Perhaps there had been a reason to wait. Perhaps it was destiny that one day the sock would leave its prison, at the brink of despair, only to find a reason to hope again. Together they walked, realizing that they enjoyed no other company as much as they enjoyed each other’s.