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The socks live; he does not.

CAS for Database

Rosie Fellig

Suffern, New York, USA

The Frisch School


It's January and I've unpacked summer.

We’re standing by a river, plump, young raspberries falling between cool stones,

A grip on my shoulder


My bare feet touching new york country soil

Every time I open my eyes there’s a new tree to meet

And a

Whole life to plan.

All those sweet summer cravings of cherries and corn

Flood my lungs

And the only thing I'm breathing in

is love.

It’s January but I feel a trickle of sweat

A tap on my ear, and there are birds above me

Singing songs I do not know.

I hum anyway, I listen anyway

I'm a foreigner to this nature

Green forest whims are swallowing me fast and

It’s their land! It's their season!

Sweet summer has captured my swollen winter heart again

And I cannot fight its wonder.

It's January but it's Friday, it’s Friday and it’s time to wear my ballet flats.

Daddy packs his pills, his flashlight, and my frilly socks

Weekend essentials

The trunk rattles with our little things

Things pretty and practical.

It’s January and I've unpacked summer

The tenderness of age nine grabs me by the knees as I unzip the moldy duffel.

The peculiar stench of what no longer exists wafts into my mothers lavender painted bedroom

like a friend you thought you had said goodbye to.

There's a history paper I ought to care about

And the tools to finding a radius

But here I am opening a bag of tiny socks

that used to be mine.

And orange pills

that used to be his.

And a bright red flash light

Because all he wanted was to see more.

It’s January and I’ve unpacked summer

The blisters behind my heel

Ache with the migrating birds

The summer father was no more.

It was the end of twilight kisses

And Peanut butter sandwiches

Just a few northern greetings

And a receipt from the graveyard.

It’s January and I’ve unpacked summer

I cannot place it back in its bag

I cannot ask for it to return in June

So I pat on my velvet bed post

And let the heat sleep with me.


“The socks live; he does not” shows us a brutal loss in delicate, subdued slivers. Through nostalgic scenes that immerse the reader in a forest of fruits and songbirds—the taste of raspberries, the sting of blisters, the hundreds of little details that make nature beautiful—it explores loneliness, bereavement, and estrangement in contrast with euphoric memories, pairing a seemingly boundless environment with the tragically short lives of the people within it.

Rosie Fellig is a graduating senior at The Frisch School and writes poetry, video essays, and other literary prose. She served as editor in chief of her school's literary magazine and has won silver and gold key medals from the scholastic arts and writing awards. Rosie shares her visual poetry and video essays on her YouTube channel, From Rosie With Love. Rosie is committed to Brandeis University as a presidential scholar and plans on majoring in psychology and film.


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