Comics news has been slow lately so I'm posting some of my "non comic strip" writing. I'm not sure if I'll ever illustrate this poem or push to publish it formally anytime soon, but I have taken the trouble to copyright it.
It wasn't a terribly special sock.
It wasn't striped or brightly colored.
It wasn't hand knit, nor was it made of fine or exotic materials.
Not alpaca wool, not silk, not carefully harvested sustainably produced bamboo fiber.
It wasn't a fashionable sock - inviting all to admire the sophistication of the ankle it adorned.
It wasn't a high tech sock - wicking away sweat and other nasty fluids in an effort to maintain a perfect and harmonious foot hygene.
No - it wasn't a terribly special sock.
But it was an important sock.
In fact the most important kind of sock.
The sock that is... missing.
That was all, it was missing.
But somehow the fact that it was missing was everything.
The fact that it was missing was the tipping point.
She knew that, if she found it, all harmony would restore to the cosmos.
Her corner of it anyway.
Her children would become bright, shiny, and successful - winning Nobel prizes, changing the world. They would be the sort of organized capable people who did great things. And, most importantly, they would pass this organization gene on to the next generation of bright and shiny grandchildren.
And the glory would be hers.
Because she was the root.
The genesis of all the bright, shiny capableness that was to come.
She had taught them everything.
It was missing.
And if it remained missing - well, the result was chaos.
The children would drop out of school.
They would never earn more than minimum wage.
Hell, they might even end up in prison.
And then, worst of all, they would pass on that hopeless, helpless, unorganized, incapable genetic material until the end of time.
Because she was the mother.
And they always blame the mother.
Copyright © 2008 by Anne Morse-Hambrock, all rights reserved.