The Pink Socks

There’s a suitcase full of my mother’s clothes on the bedroom floor. Everything in it smells like her. It smells of every hug she ever gave me.

In the living room, a beast on borrowed time rests on her dog bed. She sleeps peacefully, but a few days ago she was moaning from a tumor-extracting surgery. Her cancer is gone for now, but there’s no telling if it will return and when.

In the kitchen, there are mice banging around in the cabinets. Their strangely loud clangs and shuffles remind me that unwanted things can creep in at any moment. They make me wonder if life is just a fight to keep the bad things out.

There are pink socks scattered in the hallway, belonging to tiny feet. There’s a pint-sized washcloth drying in the bathroom, no bigger than my hand. These things remind me of the little girl tucked in a crib next to my bed. They remind me of all that’s good in the world.

They remind me of hope.