Socks

Here it is. That reminder. That little statue in the storm, palms pressed together or held up high, eyes empty or with pupils dug into the stone, but unmoving regardless of the pose. I pulled my feet into his socks, the grey ones, and the heels stuck out like Achilles wings, ready to fly. And I'm sitting here in the old man's footwear, thinking of his widowed wife on her couch with the reading glasses in her hand like always, my hands flickering over white-lettered keys, eyes darting like marine fish suddenly submerged in fresh water. There is NOWHERE written on the page. The clouds coming in, carrying water, wet the footpath for something to sink in.