A Spare Pair of Socks
Boy, I can’t begin to tell you what is wrong with a man who doesn’t bring a spare pair of socks everywhere. I mean, come on now… What is a man supposed to do when his boots are soaked, socks drenched and feet pruned like a dried raisin in my breakfast cereal?
Sometimes your feet become so damaged by the environment surrounding them that taking another step is next to impossible. Too painful to the point where you just can’t go any further, one moment you’re meagerly trying to keep yourself moving forward, but you simply just can’t. It becomes impossible, impossible to the point where you fall, like I did as a kid.
One moment I stepped on a splinter, tripped over my own feet and was sent spiraling towards my doom down my grandparent’s basement staircase. Had I known then what I know now about life, I would’ve known this was a metaphor for things to come.
When I fell, I remember instantaneous overwhelming fear. I went from standing on my own two feet to dangling by my own them. Thank god for my feet though. For they saved me that day from spiraling to the bottom, a cement wall and ground waiting to crush my skull, separate my mind from body, take my last breath. Those steps nearly killed me.
I recall being terrified. I lost my shit and began crying, screaming for help. My grandparent’s came to my rescue when I needed them most. All I saw was a bright flash of light and the hand of God saving me from my certain fate… I learned that day that my own two feet were not enough alone by myself to save me.
After war, I began seeing the need to bring a spare pair of socks everywhere. For my feet aren’t enough to protect me from my ownself.