(Dec 24th 2019)
When I took my mother to the hospital the week before she died, I tucked a pair of socks and a sweater in my bag. I knew we’d be there a minute. I knew she would be freezing.
She refused them both until she didn’t. Hospitals eventually feel like refrigerators. I pulled out the sweater, but the socks were missing.
I surreptitiously took my socks off and slid them on her tiny, icy feet.
A few minutes passed.
“Are these your socks from YOUR feet?” She asked. I nodded.
“Can I ask you another question?” I nodded.
“Why don’t young people give a shit when their socks don’t match? It’s insanity provoking.”
“Oh, woman just shut up and say thank you.”
She reached over and squeezed my hand.
I just looked down. These are my socks. And these are my thoughts.
Grief is my side hustle