There is a little yellow sock that lay inside my china jewelry box, that my father gave me when I was five.
I will my self not to think about it as I pass it by.
I am amazed at its power,
such a portal of memories
strong, tugging, emotions,
all linked to a few stitches of cotton.
I know that I cant allow myself to through it out,
and it will forever lay in the little box,
which I have so tenderly attached my heart to,
but not to the cloth its self,
the little soul whom it belonged,
and whose face is etched on my very soul...
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