Mismatched Socks and Shared Grief

I used to think healing had a timeline. That grief would pack its bags and leave on schedule,

like a houseguest who knew when to go. But loss doesn't work that way.

After my mom died, I started walking to the same bookstore every Thursday morning. Not to buy anything.

Just to exist somewhere that felt warm without demanding I be okay. I'd sit in the poetry section,

running my fingers along book spines, pretending to read while my mind went blank.

That's where I met him. This guy who always wore mismatched socks.

I noticed because he'd sit cross legged on the floor, and there they'd be.

One striped, one polka dotted. Week after week. We never spoke for months.