The magic sock

The magic sock fit us all—엄마, Andrew, Cindy and myself. No one knew where it had come from, but one day we found it in the box of toys. It fit in the palm of my seven-year-old hand. There was only one, and it was the colour of ripe tomatoes, like my favourite snack. 엄마 sliced raw tomatoes and sprinkled brown sugar over them, the way a puff of breath sprinkles dandelion seeds. We ate the tomatoes and took turns slurping the sweet water.

We took turns with the sock, too. We sat in a circle on the carpet, in the living room. First, it ate up 엄마’s foot, which was pale and slender. In Korea, a long, slim foot is called 칼 발—knife foot. She lifted that knife foot up into the afternoon light and wiggled it around, the red nylon catching. Then, us kids tried it on—from oldest to youngest, so I was always last. How could one tiny sock fit us all? We decided it was magic.

One day, when the others were off doing their own thing, I went to try the sock on. I touched its shimmery skin and parted the lips, when it suddenly whispered, ‘Eun Sun, what do you want?’ I jumped a little, rising on my tippy toes. I glanced around the room, making sure no one was there and whispered back, ‘Can you make me loved by everyone?’ And then I knew what to do. I put my right foot into the sock.

Later, 엄마 went to the kitchen to prepare an afternoon snack. I smiled my widest smile and she picked me up from the wooden bowl. She popped me down on the chopping board, brought out a knife and began slicing me, from one side to the other. Then, she spread me out on a plate and began showering me in sugar. I lay there smiling, shaking my head to gather all the sugar I could.

Joanna Cho

Joanna Cho is doing her MA in poetry at the International Institute of Modern Letters. Her work has been published in a number of local literary platforms, including The Spinoff, Stasis, and Bonsai: Best small stories from Aotearoa New Zealand.