Just a Sock by Pamela King

Look at the grey blob hanging at the end of the bed. It’s just a sock. One Dad wears to work, it goes with his suit. It’s clean but it’s just a sock.

Christmas eve and just a sock hangs on our beds.

I sigh, lay my head on the pillow and dream of stockings bright and colourful. Dream of more sparkly ones with glitter and sequins, or perhaps a handknitted one of red and green. It would lovely to even have something bigger than Dad’s foot. Why just a sock?

As the first light of dawn filters through our window we rub the sleep from our eyes and look at our dreary socks. Those unexciting items of apparel have a job to do this Christmas morning. They are meant to keep us occupied until Mum and Dad are ready to greet the day.

We grab our socks and race down the hall to Mum and Dad’s bedroom. Leaping from the floor like gymnasts launching from a springboard we land with a double thump on top of them. “Look what’s in our Christmas stockings!”

There’s an orange in the toe then it’s filled with smaller fruit, chocolates, a few small toys, maybe a new lacy hanky. So much for the Christmas morning sleep in. “Anyone want a chocolate?”

***

Our Christmas stocking tradition is still alive and well and always upturned before breakfast or other presents are opened. Now we have stockings with glitter and sparkle but sometimes I wish it was just a sock.