Thursday, March 10, 2011

lost and found

A couple of years ago, on my last trip to Kiev, I picked up John a pair of hand-knitted wool socks.  He liked wearing them in the winter because they were so warm, especially since he'd been sick.  This winter, I sewed a fleece sole to each of them because a couple of small holes were beginning.  When John's parents visited us in December, the socks disappeared.  I was so afraid they had accidentally carried them to Daytona, then thrown them out not knowing how special they were.

John and I searched for those socks, high and low, under and behind furniture, between cushions.  A couple of days after John died, I glanced up into his cubby in the top of our closet, and there the socks sat.  Right on top of everything.  In plain sight. 

If John found them, it would have had to be while he was still mobile, which would have been at least a week before he died, and you'd think I would've seen the socks in the closet I use every day.  Or that he would have told me where he found them.

To me, this is a wonderful mystery I will ask him to explain one day.  If you know the answer to the mystery, don't tell me.  They are warm.

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