She was a normal young woman. Normal as strawberries in June. Normal as grass is green, eight balls being black, chopsticks in China, and umbrellas in the rain. Neither her weight or her height made her stand out in a crowd. She wasn't loud or particularly shy. She was as normal as anyone else. Except for her socks. She had more socks, in more colors and patterns than anyone she knew. Special socks to celebrate holidays and birthdays, and the change of seasons, socks that shared her philosophy, socks that touted her politics, and socks that just made her laugh out loud. They were her one conceit, the thing that made her different. Covered by long pants or tucked into boots, her socks kept her secret self secret, and she liked it that way. Her socks let her be whoever, whatever, wherever, she wanted, without judgment from the rest of the world. Everyone had a quirk, right? Why be normal?
~Elise Skidmore ©2020