Socks

I had never held onto a woman's hand and felt a connection like I had with her. She convinced me to walk along the beach, both of us in our socks. Men don't walk on beaches in their socks, I told her. Needless to say I lost the argument. There I was, with sand creeping in through my socks as we talked about whether we were in love or if it was just infatuation. She always commented that everything ends. Almost a hint that at some point this must end. I joked that I must be her Sweet November. She told me she barely remembers that movie. Yeah, well, we were living it. More importantly, I focus on the touch. The grasp of her hand in mine. As if it will convey my feelings for her, so that words would seem a primative form of comminication.

One year ago I held her hand. She let the end come and go. I had accidentally put those sand filled socks in the laundry instead of throw them out. And it's days like today, no matter how many times I wash those socks, my shoes still fill up with sand and I remember her all over again.