Stripy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
What's my purpose in life? Where did I come from? Where do I belong? What is life, what is death? What's next in this world and next? There is no other time in life when these question become the most raw, real, scary, comforting, confusing, tantalizing... than for young adults. As parents we often forget or want to forget that turmoil of emotions and thoughts in order to protect our children. We pretend that the existential questions belong only to us - adults. But in reality, they belong to them, the youth on the verge of adulthood. Love. Loss. Future. Generations. It is all there. It is all real. I hope this story will bring comfort to some who have lost a loved one, or feeling of not being alone to those who wonder in their heart what's next in their life and why is there such unfair end as death, those who think these thoughts but are afraid to share their fears and feelings.

Submitted: August 13, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 13, 2012

A A A

A A A


 

Stripy was the most popular sock in the lost sock drawer. Everyone talked about his high thread count. They admired his deep blue base color with the stripes torques like the sea. He was a child’s sock, but even the adult socks talked about him being made like “in the good old times”.  In the days where so many socks just “did the job”, he also brought comfort. He was fuzzy enough so the kids wanted to slip their footsies into him, yet airy enough to let the most delicate skin breathe without all the latest artificial tricks. Even the other socks in the lost sock drawer wanted to be close to him, they all knew that he was special, that he gave out that warmth, that comfort.

 

They didn’t know exactly where their drawer was, but the elders speculated that it was nestled between the old sheets right below them and the favorite pajamas above. There were many of them who came and left. Some stayed for only a week, usually until a Saturday, which was the laundry day. Some, including those who came in the same batch with him, stayed for months. Some (those who liked to talk about the days gone by, others faded and silent) were here long before he arrived.

 

 After the daily chatter would die down, the whispers would start of those socks who were disposed of after being without a pair for too long, or even worse, the ones who didn’t even make it to the drawer. Of course there was also Pinky. She was a beautiful high-thread cotton sock with purple anti-slip polka dots on the sole and only slightly tethered lace on the rim. Pinky liked to chatter in a high-pitch scripted voice how she was once in a lost sock drawer before, was reunited with her pair, and was convinced that it was only a matter of time before she would be lifted out again.

 

The lifting was exciting and dreadful. About once a week, there was a swoosh which would yank the drawer forward, forcefully rearranging the lost socks, and letting in the blinding bright light. Some of the socks would be lifted. Others would be dropped in. Then it was all over. The slam shut. The darkness. The complete silence until everyone would get used to their surroundings and the baby socks would start to whimper or some old friends from the complete set drawer squeal with excitement about being reunited. Sometimes it got crowded, especially in the colder months. Stripy particularly disliked those times. Most of the socks who would end up in the drawer those days would be rough with their wooly threads or crowd him with their bulky quantity. Truthfully though, summer wasn’t much better with many of the socks who came still yellow with stains, spreading a trace of sweat that just wouldn’t wash out.

 

Even though Stripy was almost absolutely positive that he ended up in this drawer because his pair was lost in the wash, which he remembered so vividly, sometimes he wondered if it wasn’t the other way around. If there were not a better world out there where his pair ended up. The world yet not seen and experienced. If it weren’t him, Stripy, who in reality was lost. After all this time in the drawer, he felt pretty secure that even on his own, without his pair, he was too high quality of a sock to be simply disposed of. Yet he wandered if he would ever find his pair and be lifted. As time passed he started to become anxious for answers. He even caught himself thinking on occasions that he didn’t care about the outcome; he just wanted to be lifted, just to know, just to have the change. He started to withdraw from the conversations and touch of others, even the colorful baby socks no longer gave him the giggles. He no longer felt sure that his special thread and beautiful color were of use – to whom? Surely not to those other lost socks around him. Not to the children whose feet he once warmed. And definitely not to his pair, wherever it may be. He just yearned to know. To be free. 

 

It was a beautiful spring day when it happened. It was becoming less crowded in the drawer, and Stripy was starting to feel glimmers of the old carefree happiness again. This time the swoosh was softer. The light was gentler. He did not even look up, all of a sudden he knew. It was his time. He felt a tender touch which turned into a tighter yet comforting grip. And then he was lifted. Stripy was the most popular sock in the lost sock drawer. Everyone talked about his high thread count. They admired his deep blue base color with the stripes torques like the sea. He was a child’s sock, but even the adult socks talked about him being made like “in the good old times”.  In the days where so many socks just “did the job”, he also brought comfort. He was fuzzy enough so the kids wanted to slip their footsies into him, yet airy enough to let the most delicate skin breathe without all the latest artificial tricks. Even the other socks in the lost sock drawer wanted to be close to him, they all knew that he was special, that he gave out that warmth, that comfort.

 

They didn’t know exactly where their drawer was, but the elders speculated that it was nestled between the old sheets right below them and the favorite pajamas above. There were many of them who came and left. Some stayed for only a week, usually until a Saturday, which was the laundry day. Some, including those who came in the same batch with him, stayed for months. Some (those who liked to talk about the days gone by, others faded and silent) were here long before he arrived.

 

 After the daily chatter would die down, the whispers would start of those socks who were disposed of after being without a pair for too long, or even worse, the ones who didn’t even make it to the drawer. Of course there was also Pinky. She was a beautiful high-thread cotton sock with purple anti-slip polka dots on the sole and only slightly tethered lace on the rim. Pinky liked to chatter in a high-pitch scripted voice how she was once in a lost sock drawer before, was reunited with her pair, and was convinced that it was only a matter of time before she would be lifted out again.

 

The lifting was exciting and dreadful. About once a week, there was a swoosh which would yank the drawer forward, forcefully rearranging the lost socks, and letting in the blinding bright light. Some of the socks would be lifted. Others would be dropped in. Then it was all over. The slam shut. The darkness. The complete silence until everyone would get used to their surroundings and the baby socks would start to whimper or some old friends from the complete set drawer squeal with excitement about being reunited. Sometimes it got crowded, especially in the colder months. Stripy particularly disliked those times. Most of the socks who would end up in the drawer those days would be rough with their wooly threads or crowd him with their bulky quantity. Truthfully though, summer wasn’t much better with many of the socks who came still yellow with stains, spreading a trace of sweat that just wouldn’t wash out.

 

Even though Stripy was almost absolutely positive that he ended up in this drawer because his pair was lost in the wash, which he remembered so vividly, sometimes he wondered if it wasn’t the other way around. If there were not a better world out there where his pair ended up. The world yet not seen and experienced. If it weren’t him, Stripy, who in reality was lost. After all this time in the drawer, he felt pretty secure that even on his own, without his pair, he was too high quality of a sock to be simply disposed of. Yet he wandered if he would ever find his pair and be lifted. As time passed he started to become anxious for answers. He even caught himself thinking on occasions that he didn’t care about the outcome; he just wanted to be lifted, just to know, just to have the change. He started to withdraw from the conversations and touch of others, even the colorful baby socks no longer gave him the giggles. He no longer felt sure that his special thread and beautiful color were of use – to whom? Surely not to those other lost socks around him. Not to the children whose feet he once warmed. And definitely not to his pair, wherever it may be. He just yearned to know. To be free. 

 

It was a beautiful spring day when it happened. It was becoming less crowded in the drawer, and Stripy was starting to feel glimmers of the old carefree happiness again. This time the swoosh was softer. The light was gentler. He did not even look up, all of a sudden he knew. It was his time. He felt a tender touch which turned into a tighter yet comforting grip. And then he was lifted. 


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