Looking back on yesterday, everything was so normal. Too normal.
You were in New York, carrying me around Book Expo America, talking to people, knitting on me casually. We were having a good time. Like always. Sure, I’m not the sock everybody poses with. But I’m the sock you knit on. I’m the sock who gives you what you need. The sock you come home to. Not to get too Country & Western about it, but I’m the sock you think of, when you’re with other socks.
There were other people there. It seemed so mellow and fun. I remember that you were talking about chairs, and how there need to be more chairs at bookstore knitting events. I was proud of you. I thought, that’s my gal.
Then, the chair talk stopped. I heard some air-kissing and photo-snapping, and you said something about catching a plane. All of this, so far, was just like usual. Then, I felt myself being lifted up. But something didn’t seem right. (For one thing, nobody was talking about chairs anymore. Whoever it was, he or she was totally unconcerned about chairs. Bizarre.)
The sickening realization dawned on me. Whoever had me, it wasn’t you. It was someone evil.
I heard them telling your publicist, “Go away now. This is not the sock you are looking for.”
Stephanie, I’m scared. So far, I’ve been treated humanely. There has been no unravelling. No redistribution of stitches. They haven’t mitered me, thank God. But they won’t turn the lights off. All night they were reading aloud from Cat Bordhi’s book, Socks Soar on Two Circular Needles. It’s starting to get to me, Stephanie.
I’ve heard the crackle of Addi packages.
Give them whatever they want. I just want to come home.
The Sock You Left Behind