I once gave you a sock to cover your can of beer one hot summer day on a public field.
I sometimes wonder where it’s been since that Tuesday.
Perhaps it went on an early morning jog, and saw all your neighborhood looking up from gravel streets.
Maybe it sat at the bottom of your bag of ***** clothes when you went to the Laundromat and offered a spare dryer sheet to a lady who smelled like red delicious apples and cheddar cheese,
or maybe it found its way to the top of Mt. Washington in the corner of your trunk behind a bag of turkey sandwiches.
There’s a chance it could have been found by your daughter’s friend at her eighth birthday party and become a thwarted puppet-foe to her warrior princess doll,
or found by your Labrador and buried in his favorite spot under that crooked tree in the yard, only to be picked up by a hawk and placed in the bed of her nest.
It’s possible you could have packed it in your suitcase on your first trip to Spain, and walked with it on Las Ramblas when you bought pitaya at the market.
Perhaps it never left the bottom of your gym bag and remained folded inside your right cleat,
but I like to think it accidentally fell on the edge of the Grand Canyon during your spring break trip to be captured in a family photo later printed and framed in someone’s house in some exotic place where it could be, in memory, forever.