Monday, June 28, 2010

The Language of Socks


One of my earliest memories was of sitting on a bench in a rectory as my Uncle carried on quiet conversation with our parish priest.


We had taken off our shoes when we entered the small room and I was painfully knowledgeable that my socks were soiled. I awkwardly tried to avoid drawing attention to my little self, thinking that it was somehow enormously wrong to have dirty socks in this of all places.


I struggled to tuck my feet as far underneath the bench as my little body would enable so that Father wouldn't see my feet.


Somehow, at four years of age in a world that was occupied largely by imaginary friends and memorizing the colours in my crayon box, I was intensely aware that my soles needed cleansing.

2 comments:

  1. Look at that dirty hair. Doesn't that guy ever shower?

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