The Sock Puppet Symphony
The sun has not even finished climbing over the rooftops of Maple Street when Aminata's eyes pop open like two windows flung wide to let in the morning. Her alarm clock, a bright yellow contraption shaped like a smiling sun, sits silent on her nightstand, its numbers glowing a lazy 6:12. She has beaten it again. She always does, on the days when an idea decides to move into her brain and refuses to leave.
And today, oh, today the idea is enormous.
"Socks," she whispers to the ceiling, grinning so wide her cheeks ache. "A whole orchestra of socks."
She sits bolt upright, her braids springing in every direction like the legs of an excited spider, and flings back her quilt with the drama of a queen unveiling a throne. The idea arrived sometime between a dream about frogs playing trumpets and the first chirp of the birds outside her window, and now it will not let her rest until it becomes real. A sock puppet symphony. Not just one puppet, not two — an entire orchestra, conductor included, every mismatched sock in her drawer finally given a purpose grander than hiding at the bottom of a laundry pile.
She tiptoes to her dresser, though tiptoeing has never really been her strong…
