The Importance of Socks

Dad says we’re going hiking, so we, my brother, sister, and I, know to pull our socks, which are shoved into sneakers, up to our knees and slather on sunscreen. New England woods, Southwestern deserts, off-limit lava flows —Dad believes in socks.

We fan out across the desert, a little lost tribe unsure in all the negative space. Snake holes, Dad says, and we all tug on the tops of our socks. My brother stands next to a giant cactus, poking its barbs while Dad takes pictures. My sister stares at the rusty mountains that rise against God’s cancelled meetings. I ask, What’s that?, and point to a bundle of cloth lying in the pronged shadow of a cactus. Two stripes, one terracotta, the other indigo, breach the crown of the muslin. I walk closer, socks drooping around my ankles. Flies dance around the swaddled lump. Don’t go over there, Dad says low and calm like when a snake had built her nest in the bulkhead of our cellar, her body swinging defensively in the space over the stairs, her babies writhing in the crevice behind her. What is it? I ask again, now frozen in place. Doesn’t matter, we can’t do anything for it now. He turns his camera off and wraps the strap tightly around his wrist.