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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The limp red sock, half-forgotten on the mantel, still smells of oranges crushed in December mittens. Its toe cradles a fossilized candy cane, while the heel remembers the weight of walnuts. Once, it bulged with promises— a tangerine sunrise, chocolate coins, and the thrilling rustle of cellophane. Now, it sags like an unanswered letter. I press my face into its woolen hollow and inhale childhood like woodsmoke.
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