For 4: Socks

His mom sat down next to him. She didn’t say, “Socks don’t talk, Leo.” She didn’t say, “Just put them on.” Instead, she picked up the two rocket socks and held them side by side.

“No,” said the sock in a crinkly, whispery voice that only Leo could hear. “I am for the foot that kicks. I am a powerful rocket. I need the strong foot.”

And from that day on, Leo was four and a half, then five, then five and three-quarters. He grew out of the rocket socks and into shark socks and soccer ball socks and plain white socks that had nothing to say at all. But he never forgot the rule: socks for 4

“Did they behave?” she asked.

“Okay,” Leo whispered back. He turned the sock around and shoved his right toes into the heel. It was a lumpy, angry fit. The toe seam bunched under his arch. The rocket ships were now pointing sideways, exploding toward his ankle. His mom sat down next to him

“Good?” Leo asked.

Leo slid the first sock onto his left foot. The heel cup found its home. The toes spread out like five little astronauts. The rocket ships pointed straight toward his toenails, ready for takeoff. “I am for the foot that kicks

The left sock wiggled. It did not want to be left. It wanted to be right.