Black Socks.

My first memory of Ernie, as I think about him now, was his black socks.
The legs of his filthy trousers only reached down to his ankles, the black socks showed above his holey battered shoes.
He had matted,grey and greasy hair, unshaven ,lined and grimy face, teeth yellowing
and breath indicating the vile condition of his insides.
Ernie wore an ancient,threadbare coat,crumpled, stained and also very smelly.
Piercing, wary,faded blue eyes, surveyed his surrounds as my father half carried him through the door.
My second memory of Ernie was seeing my father, kneeling, on our bathroom floor, gently scrubbing away the months of personal neglect by this poor creature.
It was only after mum and dad had freshly shaved, clothed and fed Ernie, that the stark reality hit me.
This old gentleman,some dignity now restored, by my parents' love and compassion, had not been wearing black socks, it was simply an accumulation of months of ingrained dirt.