Here lies Sock.
Pretty colors, lovely yarn, good needles:
sock had every advantage and no excuse for its behavior.
Sock led a short, irritating life and will be missed by no one.
I ignored its tiny woolen tears and scratchy promises to do
better next time, and, as promised, laughed and laughed
while I unwound the little bastard.
Here are the Sock's remains: more interesting
and amenable on my cats head
than it was capable of being in all of its
fourteen frogged, reknit, refrogged incarnations.
Ever since I learned how to knit socks, I've always had one or two to work on, to carry around in my purse and keep me entertained while watching tv or in long lines. I thought I would miss not having one to work on, but I don't. Not at all.
After all the aggravation, I find the general lack of socks very peaceful.
Maybe Sock was, in its own tedious, unhelpful way, trying to tell me that it wasn't really a sock. Maybe it dreamed of curling around an arm, soft and warm, the way the best gloves do. Maybe Sock was a rebel with a cause who longed to break out and morph butterfly-like into a small shawl, or even a beret, thus paving the way for other sock yarns to follow. Maybe Sock, poor old Sock, is a martyred hero who will rise from yarny ashes to become something better than it dared dream of, like a cat sweater.
The perfect song to to play while killing your knitting: