socks

I randomly grabbed some pair of socks out of the drawer, sat on the bed to put them on, and then I realized they were the socks I wore during Lucy’s birth. I probably would never have remembered that if my midwife Megan hadn’t pointed out that they were Smartwool. Before Lucy’s birth, she pulled out those footsies they give you in the hospital with grippers on them. She told me I should wear the hospital footsies. “You might get blood on your socks.” Really? Like on top of everything else, she wanted me to save the socks. “It doesn’t matter if I get blood on these socks,” I said. She looked at me very seriously. “But these are cool socks.” I stared at the socks when she handed me the footsies. I began hating these fucking purple Smartwool socks. I mean, really hate them. Why do I even have these socks? Where did they come from, these ugly ass socks? Maybe if I hadn’t worn these socks, the day would have been different. Still, she said, “No, really, those are Smartwool. They are nice socks. You don’t want blood on them, do you?” Actually, yes, I did want blood on them. Iwant blood on everything. I am in a war, and I want everyone to know about it. I wanted these beautiful purple socks stained and ugly, just like me. “They are already ruined! I am already ruined!” I wanted to scream. These stupid purple socks will always be those fucking socks I wore the day Lucy died. They will always be ugly now. And I hated them. I hated everything Smartwool. I hated everything wool. I hated everything having to do with socks period. And now, I am pulling on those fucking socks I wore the day, more than two months ago, that my daughter died—the ones that Sam carelessly threw into the bag after I put on footsies and birthed my dead daughter without a drop of blood.