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Mom would complain of the cold in her bedroom whenever she forgot to wear her socks. In fact, when she went to the hospital, she had someone take the socks to her room, her old, lose odly colored socks.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is the everyday things a person owns, like a brush, perfume, or socks, suddenly become important to you; they become little pockets of memories.

The first thought in my mind would be the countless times I saw her wear them, walking around her room covered in layers of clothing, even if we all knew the airconditioning could be turned off anyway. Sometimes I hate finding things like this — they always make me hope she’d be here to wear them again.

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