Hole in one.
A broken sock triggers some memories.
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Sitting on the very top step in the stairwell on Wednesday morning, pulling on my socks, I noticed a small hole in one. After making a mental note to throw them away, I slipped into my shoes and caught the elevator to the ground floor. I popped my earphones in on the way down and fiddled with my phone to find the right song to complement the short, albeit beautiful walk to the shops.
My hole-ridden socks are white Adidas half socks (they cover the ankle, but don’t creep up the calf). A friend of mine always wore them to university, and I, sick and tired of my ankle socks being swallowed up by my sneakers, promptly copied his style. I bought six pairs of white half socks and never looked back. This particular pair also boast a name tag. Hilarious as it is for a twenty-four-year old man to have his name on his socks, it was clearly printed on the requirement form at the summer camp I worked at. Before packing my bags and leaving to New York for three months, I ironed sixty-something labels into every piece of clothing I took with me. I learned some weeks after arriving that that requirement form was actually addressed to the children, and I was the only camp counsellor in a staff of more than a thousand who had gone to the trouble. It served me well, though—twice, socks that I thought had been lost to the tumble dryer found their way back to me. Not so silly after all, then.
I packed relatively light when I went to camp. Those six pairs of socks from university, now sporting my name, came with as my daily drivers. I worked from seven in the morning until ten at night, walking more than twenty thousand steps every day for months, and the socks showed it. Before I put a hole in this pair on Wednesday morning, they had several bald patches, where I had walked the thread bare. Once camp came to an end, I wore those socks travelling in San Francisco and Dublin. I wore those socks when I was at home in Cape Town looking for a job. I wore them when I boarded the plane to start that job in Berlin. Slowly, soldiers fell. My six pairs were reduced to five. Then four. The socks I put a hole in this week are my last pair.
Camp took quite a toll on my clothes. From rips in my t-shirts to chemical stains on my shorts, many of the articles of clothing I took to camp never made it home. My move abroad then further constrained my wardrobe. Nothing else that I took to the US is in my closet today, except for my socks and my pyjamas. And I give my pyjamas about a month before they follow suit.
Returning from the grocery store, walking in my broken socks, heavy bags in my hands, I looked up at the trees that line my road. The leaves shuffled in the wind. The sky was clear and bright. I don’t usually slow down like this, I’m very task driven: I only feel like I can relax once the groceries are home and in the fridge. Something in my heart told me to pause, though. I took a breath. The summer air is sweeter than I imagined it to be. Sweet like it was in the forest at camp. It’s been two years since my socks and I were there. I get quite a heaviness in my chest when I think of throwing my socks away. I don’t actually care about the socks, I’m happy to bin them. I think it’s the feeling of having fewer and fewer physical items to connect me with that time in my life. This, again, is not as cut and dry as it may seem. Camp was great, but I’m very happy where I am at the moment, too. I don’t long to go back. I think what I’m sensing is time passing. Fabulous memories getting foggier. I’m not the college kid I was when I bought those socks. Wonderful as growth may be, it’s a bit sad, too.
Standing and staring at the trees on my road, I wondered what items might mark this time in my life. I have a pair of shoes I bought in Cape Town and have worn all over Berlin. I brought one of my dad’s old fleeces on the plane with me. For my first birthday away from home I got a beautiful set of mugs and bowls from my girlfriend’s parents. I wonder where I’ll be when life puts cracks and holes in those things. I wonder if I will look back, then, with fondness and tearful eyes, too.
I cried writing this, all about a pair of socks. Isn’t that funny? If you enjoyed this journal, please send it to someone you love.