Her feet are always cold, so
she stuffs them in soft socks
as we sit close together.
Giggles interrupt Dad’s TV
show, and we giggle harder
when he hushes us.

I beg her to go shopping,
though she much prefers
staying home in her socks.
We walk side by side, pinkies
intertwined, sharing secrets,
our swift steps in sync.

We don’t share the same
sense of style, but over time
she has come to understand.
Accepting the silly shirts and
skirts is much easier for her
now, since I’ve moved away.

When it’s time for me to go,
she sees me off, still in her
socks and a sad smile.