If you were capable of being completely honest with yourself, you suppose you could explain why you chose to spend the past twenty minutes wearily dragging this parachute-sized knee sock out from the musty depths of the closet and out into the center of the carpeted space that once served as Carly’s bedroom.  But then again, it’s much less taxing to just sit here like you’re doing now, kneeling over it like holy ground and hanging tightly onto the bubblegum-colored fibers as though you’re about to be launched into the stratosphere.

            It’s impressive in the worst way possible, really, that you managed to find this sock: even more so than the fact that you managed to move it on your own.  This room has been cleared out of all your sister’s former possessions for the past six months at least.  Every item was categorically ripped from the house while your mother leaned against a wall and dry-sobbed.  Those sticks of frilly furniture and sequin-coated grade school scrapbooks served as yet another painful source of guilt for your parents, when your shrunken body and soupy mess of a trauma-addled brain are already doing plenty in that department.  As far as you know, most of Carly’s belongings were tossed into storage, to be picked through at the leisure of some hopelessly baffled servants of the criminal justice system.

            This lonely piece of footwear, faded from repeated washings and speckled with dingy dust specks, it seems is the final testament in the entire home to your sibling’s existence.  Like a tombstone. A soft, fluffy tombstone in which you can entangle your fingers and feel strangely at peace.

            And incidentally, a tombstone that has retained that signature aroma of pungent grass stains, salty-and-sour sweat, rubbery insole, and acrid strawberry-lathered flesh, all eternally coiled into every thread of that sock.  You would’ve once been revolted, maybe even choked by the sticky scent, but no more.  Now, it’s simply the many flavors of Carly, preserved in a time capsule shaped like a tube sock.  That’s probably what allowed you to track it down as you sauntered numbly through the old bedroom, suddenly picking up on its ghostly haze creeping from the back of the closet.  Of course, this thing has been lying forgotten in the dark for nearly two years, so the fact that you can still detect it like a well-trained bloodhound probably ought to be a tad troubling.

            Fortunately, you’ve decided not to let such humiliating technicalities bother you as you steadily lower yourself into the folds of the sock, plush and inviting in its warmth amidst the unfamiliar and sterile gray of this room.  It can’t hurt to rest for a moment, after you just exerted yourself so thoroughly to lug the massive cotton tube out from the dredges of memory.

            When you hold still enough to let your heartbeat settle down below normal, your ears practically trained to pick up on individual pellets of dust touching down to the carpet, the sense of clarity would be maybe just a little too eerie if not for the voice you’re able to make out echoing inside your cranium. Rebounding. Refusing to be forgotten for even a day. The exact sound of every syllable, every turn in sentence so perfectly tuned that your brain can reconstruct her so convincingly you surprise even yourself when you hear Carly’s imaginary words penetrating your brain.

            “That’s it, little bro. Give big sissy’s sock a hug. She made it nice and warm. Just for you.”

            What’s the harm in giving yourself a little break once in a while?  That’s what Sophie is always telling you, anyway.  Eventually your whole body is pressed down into Carly’s solitary basketball footwear, and just as easily you allow your face to sink into the wooly texture like sand on a beach.

            “Why don’t you give it a good smell? I want you to be able to find yourself home if you ever get lost. Like a puppy. My puppy.”

            Your nostrils constrict, obeying a voice that you created just to retake some control in this moment, ironically by handing control over to your distant and possibly no longer living sibling.

            “Deeper, Jack. You won’t get it good enough like that. Breathe deep.”

            Inhaling stronger than before, you let the weaker scents leftover from her overworked flesh and pounding sneakers rise into your skull, tickling the recesses of your brain and setting off a spark inside along with the warm voice itself.

            “How is it, little bro?”

            God, you can get it all now.  Mud smeared into the doughy crags of her sole.  Gooey toejam compressed between every tanned digit.  It’s all there, as recognizable as though you had your face pressed into the actual skin of Carly’s workout-moistened foot once again, your heavy breathing timed perfectly with the beating of her pulse felt through the pink flesh.

            Goosebumps roll down your body from the nape of your neck to the tips of your toes.

            “Lie down, Jack. That’s it. It’s okay to use my sock. You have my permission to sleep, little bro.”

            Resting.  That’s all you’re doing now.  Resting.  Maybe taking a nap.  Maybe getting a little warmer.

            “You have my permission to dream about me.”

            Can you help it that this sock happens to be laid out where you chose to prostrate yourself?

            Well, yes, it definitely can, but this isn’t the time to be arguing with your subconscious.  You huddle your limbs in closer to your torso, rolling over and cocooning yourself in a fold of the stale fabric.  As you dip your face back into the sock, lush with that balmy tang that’s been melded into your synapses countless times, something else occurs to you.  For that sock to be back there, so deep in the corner of the room and your mind that it was without a partner, that probably means it missed the dirty laundry basket when Carly tried to toss it in after a tough scrimmage so long ago.  And that means it hasn’t been cleaned: its last purpose was to be snugly wrapped around the powerful contours of your sister’s arch and heel, conforming to her shape and dutifully absorbing her essence drop by zesty drop, storing it away as though through divine intervention for you to unlock its putrefied ambrosia at this moment.

            You weren’t really aware until now that your jaws had been hanging open, your tongue limp on the dank cloth floor.  But now that you’re thinking about it, you can feel the pleasant sting of noisome salt in your throat.  All those tastes you were bred on for five years come flowing back in.  Your teeth clamp back together, gathering as many of the pink fibers into your mouth as you can wad.  Chewing proves difficult for a moment, but the fabric is still mealy enough to make it possible to bite in and savor the sweet acidity contained therein: a homey blend of bitter grunge and shoe-baked flesh.  It’s almost as if you’re closing your mouth over the firm toeprint of Carly’s pinky, cushiony and plenty tough to handle your biting and desperate samplings.  Drool is practically dripping from your lips at the thought.

            Following with this pattern of barely keeping up with your body’s baser instincts, you realize your hand is already halfway tucked under your stomach and working its way down into your pants.  There’s plenty of room, of course, as you’ve already adjusted your awkwardly sprawled stance to account for the sore erection you’re now sporting.

            “Jack?” your mother’s voice croons with calculated gentility, yet it still catches you by surprise as your hungrily focused trance is shattered.  You flinch and regret it immediately, knowing you’ve probably just given the poor woman cause to lie awake half the night overthinking the fact that she startled you.  “Are… you all right?”

            “Y-Yeah.  Yeah, Mom.  Sorry,” you say soothingly, knowing full-well she’s the one that needs to be calmed down now as you turn to look up at her and see her eyelashes batting faster than normal.  She’s descended onto her haunches and even leaned in closer to the carpet, putting herself as near as possible to you.  You know how acutely she hates to tower over you, and with a twinge of embarrassment, you realize she must’ve been in the room for a minute at least, carefully stooping an inch at a time so as to avoid causing an earthquake with her footsteps that might frighten you even worse

            “What are you doing… in here?” she asks.  Her eyes dart furtively to the sock you’re still lying atop, but to your undying gratitude, she’s apparently decided to skip over questioning why you’re cuddling with a used piece of your crazed sister’s footwear.  Thank Christ you’re wrapped up in fabric to conceal the fact that you were not only sucking on the reeking sock but on the verge of humping it.  Perhaps the saddest part of all is that if that little piece of information were to come to light, your mother probably wouldn’t even try to admonish you, and simply shower you with nauseated pity.  It’s almost enough to make you feel sick.

            Sighing, you stare blankly up at her, weighing your admittedly poor options for answering the question.  Your mother’s looming face is a canvas painted with the complicated emotions she’s been carrying around ever since your resurrection.  Those irises, a more metallic blue than Carly’s, are cold and devoid of the laughter they once held.  Her lips are pursed, tighter and pinched.  Deeper creases in her skin have formed around her eyelids and lips from stress and long nights standing outside your bedroom door wondering if she would awaken you if she entered and stood guard while you slept, despite the fact that you’re of course already lying hopelessly awake and listening for her footsteps.  A few silvery hairs you don’t remember seeing a year ago have sprouted in the golden tangle of her often-unkempt locks that hang down past her shoulders.

            You’ve already let almost a full minute of awkward silence roll by, and this exchange isn’t doing anything to resolve itself as your mother gazes down at you, her hands splayed out on either side of the sock.  It’s only going to get rougher if you don’t cobble together some kind of repartee now.

            “Just… walking. I thought, um… I mean… Dr. Felton thought…” you sigh, steadily gluing this lie into place. “…she thought it could be… good sometimes to, you know… revisit places I have certain, um… associations with.”

            “Oh,” your mother says, trying to sound understanding but clearly concerned and suspicious as a few furrows etch into her soft brow. She brushes her bangs out of her eyes as she dips her head lower toward the floor, tucking a tuft of those silvery-blonde locks behind her ear. You can tell she wants to intervene, but still doesn’t know the first thing to say to you now. You’re practically a stranger. For once, it’s a relief. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting.”

            “No, it’s okay. Um, actually… I’m… glad you’re here, I…” you continue, hoping to shift the subject away from your current activity as quickly as possible. Feeling your erection dejectedly wilting inside your pants, no longer incriminating you, you stealthily unfold yourself from the sock fluff and clamber back to your feet. You feel your own heels sinking softly into the fabric, kissed by the memory of Carly’s odiferous aura. Every step, just for an instant, makes you consider the possibility of the threads unbinding themselves and sewing you into the pink cottony beast, entombing you in this rancid relic of your sister’s lasting power. Perhaps awaiting the sheer impossibility of those toes eventually winding back through the mouth of the sock, the sole filling up the space between the fibers bleeding rose-tinted sunlight, the skin pressing itself into you as though coming home finally. Would you even want to fight back?

            “Yes?” your mother whispers after your lengthy pause. She folds her fingers together, so slowly her nails don’t even clack together. Her palms have flushed together as they near you, a soft monument before you on the carpet as she patiently waits out your stumbling transition.

            “…Dr. Felton… I mean, me too… thought it might be good to, um… you know, t-talk… just talk with you. For a little bit,” you manage, realizing your previous evasion tactic has turned into a genuine desire. “Since we… haven’t really. Yet.”

            “I know,” Leah Arton breathes. Though the monolith of your weary mother remains still before you, given the privileges of a bug’s eye perspective, you can make out the veins shifting in her arms, the sinewy muscles tensing, and the lines under her darkened eyelids tightening. She’s just as anxious as you are. You watch a lump travel down from her jawline and down the nape of her neck, pressing out against her skin, challenging the sounds to flow past it and escape her lips. “Do you… want me to hold you, sweetie?”

            “Yes please,” you gulp, at last taking a step off the altar of Carly’s ratty sock and onto the bedroom floor. Your parent’s fingers shakily unfurl, but quickly stiffen protectively once you’ve placed the tiny sole of your foot onto the cold spiral of her fingerprint. The rest goes surprisingly easily as you take a seat in her palm before she dares move another inch, lifting you off the ground and rising back to her full height with her opposite hand cupped around you in a fleshy shield. Certainly she’s held you plenty of times in the past year and a half, but when you think hard about it, it can’t have numbered more than in the multiple dozens total.

            “Maybe I should… sit on the mattress?” she offers, her face immediately twitching and practically stretching in her somberness. “No. I’m sorry. I… we can go somewhere else, honey. I didn’t mean to-”

            “Hey, no it’s… okay. You know, I’ll kill two birds with one stone,” you say, throwing in a shrug and a forced chuckle for good measure. Your mother frowns, returning your gesture with an uneasy smile and a nod of her own before carefully lowering onto the stripped bed, easing onto its cushy white surface an inch at a time, always ensuring you haven’t budged in the padded center of her hand before making her next motion. A few stray hairs have fallen over her forehead, and you can tell she wants to wipe them away, but doesn’t dare do it and risk giving you the slightest possibility of falling from her hand, let alone breaking this quavering eye contact.

            Whatever’s about to happen, you’re here for the long haul. Shakily you wrap your hands around your mother’s thumb and hug it to your chest.