Purple Socks

Two ancient oak trees stood resolute at each corner of the property. Today they were girded with yellow caution tape as uniformed men and women trekked back and forth over the manicured lawn from car to house.

Though the sirens had long been silenced, it was still too noisy for me, so I retreated to the safety of the swing in the backyard.

Silently I sat, the evening breeze just beginning to pick up as the sun dipped behind neighboring roofs. Wisps of my hair caught on my still wet cheeks. When I had left the house with my cousin, Grandma was happy to see us going off to enjoy ourselves.

“You two need some catch-up time. No one understands the needs of a teenage girl like another teenage girl. Go buy something nice!” She had given each of us 20 bucks, not understanding inflation.

Looking up as a territorial robin gave chase to a foe, I spied her purple socks still hanging on the line. Knowing they were still here, watching over me, was as comforting as the wool they were made from. I let them hang.

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