license to old, weather-worn socks. these were the best pair—slid right on and off—knew the feet. mine, yours, equal opportunity warmth and barrier from the elements. even a hole, even many, can’t stop—won’t limit what we know to be true:
age like grapes off the vine, pulped and mashed and left sequestered. one day the vintage surpasses the awkward growing pains of a fermented delight’s passage through the cold void of the soul’s transit system.
eventually, every sock is a failure and a triumph. old reliable and something best left in the back of the sock drawer. eventually. for now, we’re going to put them through the paces. these were one of the good pairs. and we’re in a hurry. the rest takes care of itself. the exposed heel will share its wincing platitudes and let us know how much longer our devotion will control the narrative.
