Your socks are tiny things, barely a little ball of cotton in my palm. A week later, your small feet will fill them.
The memory of when I was 11, sitting in front of the churning dryer, does not feel so far away. My own socks spun violently around the drum: my own parents’ love in action.
I wonder if the one of you given to bouts of hiccups would be the same earthside, and if the kicker would carry forth his habit. I wonder whose eyes you’d get.
Q 