My grandmother’s final Christmas gift to me was a pair of hand-knitted socks. I didn’t know it would be her last gift at the time. Nobody did.
They weren’t perfect – one was slightly longer than the other, and the pattern went a bit wrong near the toe of the left sock. But they were made from the softest merino wool I’d ever felt, with beautiful colors and a smell of pine, like the trees behind her house.
She’d been knitting less that year. Her arthritis made it difficult to hold the needles for long periods, but she insisted on making these socks. “Everyone needs one good pair,” she’d say, though she’d made me dozens over the years. This pair was different. She took her time, working on them in small sessions over three months.
I wore them sparingly at first, wanting to preserve them, but after she passed, I found myself reaching for them more often. They became my morning coffee socks, my sick day socks, my watching-old-movies-under-a-blanket socks. The slight imperfections made them more precious – physical proof of her determination to finish them despite her pain.
Five years later, they’ve grown thin in places. I’ve darned them twice now, trying to learn how to patch them properly through YouTube videos. My stitches aren’t as neat as hers, but each repair feels like a conversation with her, my clumsy fingers trying to speak her language.
They’re more reinforcement than original sock now, but I can’t bring myself to retire them. They’ve absorbed so much – winter mornings, midnight snacks, first-day-of-school jitters for my own kids, quiet moments when I miss her most.
They’re not just socks anymore. They’re a memory I can wear.
Sometimes, when I fold them, I can still catch a faint whiff of her house – black tea, lavender and that pine. I know it’s probably just my imagination, but I let myself believe it anyway. After all, isn’t that what the best pairs of socks do? They hold more than just feet – they hold pieces of our stories, keeping them safe and warm until we need them again.