Warm striped ones

SeasonsDella had positioned her wheelchair near the front door of the nursing home, searching each face that entered until her son finally made his way into the lobby.

“Bobby!” She grabbed the wheel of her chair and propelled herself into his path. “We need to talk.”

Bobby stopped in mid stride. “Uh, OK, Mom. Is there a problem today?”

He stopped by every day on his lunch hour and he kept up on her issues and conditions.

“We need to talk.”

He pushed her wheelchair to another room for some privacy and settled on a chair in front of her. “So what’s up?”

“Do I have any money?” Della leaned forward, her eyebrows bent.

“Yes. Dad made some good investments over the years. You’re doing OK.”

Della nodded. “Can I afford some new socks?”

Bobby glanced down at her feet, clad in fuzzy purple socks. “Do you need socks?”

“I don’t have any that fit. But if we can’t afford it, I can wait.”

His mother had once been the queen of proportion. Socks, once upon a time, barely registered on her concern meter. Things had changed.

But if socks were important to his mother, they were important to Bobby. He ventured into the sock aisle to scout out the selection. Maybe warm striped ones this time.


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