I hadn’t realized when
I gave them to her one Christmas
that they didn’t match.

“Jan,” said my mother in her
what-have-you-done-now? voice,
“These socks are mismatched.”

“What?” I said. She hadn’t yet
removed them from their cardstock
sleeve. “They have butterflies
on them. You love butterflies.”

She shook her head. “Look.
They’re different colors.”

I did. And, as usual, she was right
(because she couldn’t not be)—
one sock a bright robin’s egg blue,
the other a subdued navy,

though they did, indeed, have the same
butterflies and dragonflies flitting merrily
across their sock-y selves.

“Why would they do that?” she grumbled.
“Intentionally mismatch socks,”
glaring as I had manufactured them
that way.

“Whimsy?” I guessed.

She pulled her brow into its familiar furrow.
“That’s just dumb,” she declared, and
though I offered to exchange them,
she took them home, where, after her
death, I found them with a dozen other
brand new, unused things I’d given her—

from the turquoise (her favorite color)
butterfly’d jewelry pouches
to yes, other socks that scored
high on the whimsical scale.

Today I found the mismatched
pair that I forgot I’d tucked in
my sock drawer and unhinged
them from their protective cover.
I put them on and said aloud,
“Whimsy, Ma,”

which was when I felt her smile
along with the fanciful butterflies
fluttering with my every step.