Congratulations, you did it!

You finally found me, the long-lost lucky sock. The one who got away years ago. Your friends and family told you to give me up, move on, find a new pair with an even wackier pattern.

But you knew better.

And now, the prodigal sock has returned to give you that ineffable edge in your day-to-day life.

After all, my absence was all that’s been holding you back, right?

At first, I was excited for you and the new us. I could feel the pressure as soon as you put me back on your foot, not just in the heel—which you drag more than ever—but beyond.

You threw me right into the frontlines. Barely even a warm-up walk before we stood together at your performance review. I did what I could to steady your leg from shaking as you explained your value to management.

You didn’t get the raise. Wait, we didn’t get the raise.

As an inanimate object, I don’t know what else I could have done, but I could tell you were disappointed in me. The callous manner you peeled me off you that night. Balled me up like a used tissue, then threw me at the wall before I uncurled and fell into the dark abyss of your laundry basket.

You didn’t even call out a basketball player’s name like you used to.

That’s not you, and this isn’t us. I let it go because I wanted this second round to work.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t question myself. Maybe I’ve just lost the magic, or the world that rewarded you for wearing me no longer exists. 

Perhaps it never did.  

In our first days of reunion, your familiarity comforted me, as I know my thick thread count and still spry cuffs exhilarated you. But I gotta be honest here, though, it doesn’t look like you’ve changed much since I left you. Sure, you have mini-dividers in the drawers now. Your bed has a frame, and you use a name-brand detergent. Even have those practical little fluffy balls perpetually in the dryer. 

Nice touches, really.

But underneath it all—and I’ve seen it all—it’s still you. The kind of person who scrambles at the last minute to slide just across the finish line. Who still depends on an indecipherable combination of personal rituals, imbued objects, and omens outside their control for confidence and any semblance of agency in life.

It was cute back in our heyday. 

Now, though? I know I can’t give you the pep in your step you so clearly need and expect from apparel into which you’ve disproportionally invested yourself emotionally.

But, if it helps, I know what happened to the hat that touched all those waterfalls you hiked by in college. It’s safe, daresay, even happy now. Content and dry in another long-forgotten corner.

If you want, I can give you directions. But only if you truly believe it’ll help.

---

Brian Francis O’Dea is a writer living above a woodshop in Fayetteville, Ar. His work has been featured in Monkeybicycle, Maudlin House, Fictional Café and ROVA Magazine. His nonfiction collection is forthcoming with Ozark Hollow Press. You can find him on Instagram, X, or read more now at brianfrancisodea.com