After he died, I had to buy
some socks for my dad. My
mother insisted a pair go

with the suit I’d spruced up
for the undertaker. I bought
a three-pack on sale, one

pair for dad, two for me. I
think of him mouldering
there in his socks when a

pair floats up in the heap
of my laundry. I recognize
them still by the sheen of

polyester—cheap socks
are fine, I reasoned, for the
grave where the walking’s

stopped. As for me, I have
two pairs of cheap shiny
socks. For now. For a while.