You've outgrown your socks again. I noticed them riding just above the bottom of your heel this morning.
The socks you wore new the first day of school. The socks thrust forward as you practice your front kick. The socks you stained like pitch when you "rescued" a snail from a mulch bed in a rainstorm and snuck out a few minutes later - forgetting your shoes - because you were worried there might be others out there that wouldn't survive the storm.
I love your socks.
I love them because they're yours. I love them because they touch you and hold you and shape to you.
I have your socks.
I wonder if your first mom wishes she did.