I don’t have the red socks that have the three holes in them anymore. I lost them on the way to NOLA. Both of them. Not at the same time, mind you. They didn’t go out together like some suicide pact. I lost them seperately.
More like Where the Red Fern Grows. They were old, they had always been together. Since the begininng they had traveled from Connecticut to LA. And their final resting places, no matter how far apart, are really a sign to me. That coupled things fall the way side and sometimes one part doesn’t make it past the loss.
That sometimes the loss is so great, so life shattering, that moving on just isn’t an option. The whole world can come undone so quickly all because of loss.
Not that I understand loss. I have never lost a child. I have never truly lost a lover or a spouse. I have seen it. I have felt it via proxy. But the loss of your second half, your lobster, your soulmate isn’t anything close to what I have experienced in my life.
My mother’s parents died. It was many years ago now (to me, although my mother might have something to say about that). They were distant, but my grandmother was always very caring to me. She smiled and my boyhood knee-scraps were healed. My grandfather was very stoic. Quiet and enjoyed things that way. Or maybe not. Maybe he had stories and stories from his childhood or The War. Maybe he had no way of sharing. I can never be sure. But I love them from here. It didn’t stop done my existence.
I have encountered loss. Material, physical, personal, friends, career, and so many other things. It is hard to list them without trying to prioritize them. Give one a greater meaning than the others. But I won’t. Not here and now.
And really, what the fuck was I to do with one sock?