A long, long time ago, I sent in an entry to the Socknitters Museum of Odd Socks. In it I detailed the tragedy of losingone of the firstfingering weight yarn socks I ever knit – an eye-popping mustard yellow thing, with toe, heel, and ankle stripe in a tweedy red left-over. That must have been back in the summer of ’96, just after I moved to my last house, and (coincidentally) just after the sock bug bit me.

In all that time my missing sock never turned up. Although I was sure it would reappearbehind a bureau or underthe washing machine,I didn’tfind it when we moved out, although we left the old house broom clean and bare to the walls. I came within a hairs’ breadth of tossing the mate to my missing sock when I divested myself of others during The Great Sock Exorcism. At last minute though, I took my mustardy friend out of the toss-me pile and tucked it back into my sock drawer as a reminder of life’s eternal mysteries.

Yesterday I got an envelope in the mail. Itcontained the missing sock.

No note. No return address. The postmark was local, but not in town. My guess is that the new owners of my old house found it – where I haven’t a clue – and knowing I probably missed it, mailed it to me. Either that or the colorblind poltergeist finally had enough of the thing and decided to send it home.

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