Before My Mom Died, I Never Knew a Pair of Socks Could Hold So Much Power

Before my mom died, I never knew that a balled up pair of socks could stop me in my tracks and deduce me to a sobbing puddle of tears all alone on the floor in my bedroom closet for longer than I even know or care to admit.

I never knew that a balled up pair of socks could instantly catapult me back in time to the days she spent clutching them in her hands to prevent her from clenching her fists too tight as she lay dying in a hospital bed in her living room.

I never knew that a balled up pair of socks could bring me to my knees—forcefully pressing them into my nose and desperately inhaling with every ounce of breath in my body just hoping to get even the slightest whiff of her.

I never knew that a balled up pair of socks could have the ability to bring her back and yet, make her feel so incredibly far away at the same time.

I never knew that a balled up pair of socks could spark an entire lifetime of both beautiful and painful memories.

I never knew that a balled up pair of socks could embody the spirit of an actual once living human being.

Before my mom died, I never knew that a balled up pair of socks could hold that much power.

But now I do.

Before my mom died, I never knew a balled up pair of socks could hold that much power.

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