Toes Up, Funeral Socks

You have walked in my shoes for four years. Since the event that divided my life into before and after, you have carried the burden of my body.  It grew heavier, eating a pint of ice cream at a time, chased by a bag of potato chips, in hopes of a peaceful sugar coma, rest, feet up. Still, you took steps to shop, drive, work, clean and even play. You have outlasted the shoes that protected you, but finally you have a loss,  a hole that I will not repair. I have never written to my socks before, but it seems necessary to end our relationship in this way. It is time for you to go. The dirge is done.