I step onto the porch in my socks. My mom would yell at me if she saw me right now. Socks are meant to be worn with shoes over them. You’re going to track dirt all around the house. You’re going to ruin your socks. But my mom isn’t here and I am supposed to be an adult— so I take my sock-only feet to the end of the porch and I wait for my dog to be done peeing in the front yard. The tree in the center of my yard is tipping. I wonder if this pulls on the roots beneath it. A harsh yanking and pulling on the roots as they mumble to the tree: “Would you stand up straight for God sake?” My mom would tell me the same.