Photo by Arthur Tseng on UnsplashIn the elevator I stroked the sock with my thumb. It was feather-light and super-soft. I’d almost forgotten how soft.
It was the fifth day of Ghost Month. Every evening before sundown, there would be a fire burning in a small furnace in front of my building. I would walk past the trail of black smoke rising from the offerings of silver paper. The portal between the human and spirit worlds had opened.
The sock had dropped to the ground when I was unclipping the last of my underwear from its hanger. I saw it fall, and for a second, I froze. Motionless, I stood gazing at it between the white legs of the drying rack.
With my eyes still fixed on it, I lowered myself inch by inch. Crouching on my toes, I examined it. It was tiny – light purple, dotted with little green frogs. I sank lower, until I was kneeling on the floor. Little by little, I eased closer to the ground until my face rested beside it. The sock laid there, unmoving, crumpled like a little body.
I knew then what I had to do.
Now, as I walked out of the elevator, I could smell the smoke from the offerings being burnt outside the front door.
Three men were standing around the fire. I walked up to them, and one turned. It was the security guard of my building. I nodded to him, and he set his jaw into a tight smile. I stood next to him, squeezing the sock in my hand. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, I threw the sock into the fire.
It barely sputtered. I could feel the security guard’s eyes on me, questioning. I stared at the sock. It burned beautiful. The fire ate through fibers, opened holes in its feather-grey body. The tiny frogs curled inward, blackening into dots. The hot smoke was starting to make my eyes water. Everything blurred. I watched the colors of the flame dance until I couldn’t tell what was what.
