He plopped himself on the rug and pulled his sock on, tugging on the elastic till the fabric stretched to his knees. He gazed down at a bump. Scrunched his forehead, patted the bump down. It flattened but not all the way.
The furrows in his forehead grew. The bumpy bit was connected to the sock … like always … but something still seemed wrong.
He twisted his foot. Examined the sole. No bump there.
He pulled harder on the elastic. Re-examined. No change.
Somehow when mommy or daddy did this, the sock looked different. No bump on the bottom. No bump on top.
He stood, took a step and stopped. Another step. Stopped.
The bump bunched. It felt funny when he walked.
He sat back down. Stared at his feet. Wiggled his toes.
It felt funny again. He bent his foot. No good.
Maybe the sock was broken.
He pulled it off.
Took a look.
The sock appeared completely normal now. Just like always.
He pursed his lips, pointed his toes into the sock and tried again.
The fabric bunched. A bump.
He moved his foot, paused, narrowed his eyes, and sighed. Tugged the sock off and held it between thumb and finger.
“Be good boy, Sock,” he admonished. “No more no-sense. I mean it!”
For The Daily Post