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Solo Sock, Empty Chair

“Does this sock belong to you?” I ask my daughter. I don’t ask why it is lying lonely on the railing or where its’ mate is. Personally, I have a favorite sock that is waiting for its mate to turn up. If you look at it closely, rub your fingers over the thin weave of the heel, you might think it isn’t worth it. I put it back in the drawer anyway. Two weeks ago I found unfamiliar underwear in that drawer. One pair would be weird, but three? I know not to ask my husband. After 25 years I can anticipate Jake’s response: “If I am going to have an affair, anyone who bought that particular underwear would not qualify as a candidate.” Even in my head, he keeps me laughing. And as he points out daily

Journal Entry

In squished spaces people have to co-operate a bit more. Furrow browed conversations at the café tables are interrupted by someone trying to get by. Those with seats smile up at a stranger; Yes it is crowded in here, We are in this together, How can I help? I spot a seat at the window bar and ask the greybeard at the table under my elbow if I might put my coat on the empty wooden chair across from him. He greets me warmly, and obligingly shifts his seat to make space for me. A professor from Montreal, he is reading a paperback on Italian art, underlining every second sentence in red ink. He has a long face, glasses slightly bent, a burgundy sweater with crumbs on it. His teeth have seen bett

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