Kir's prompt for us this week asked us to write about a topic very near and dear to many of us: shoes.
You were to write about a pair of shoes of yours or your character's. They can be real or symbolic.
Her shoes all dispersed in bags now, prepared to be carried off. If you were to take them out, stretch them before you, they would tell a story, a story of a woman. Brave. Vibrant. Loving life.
You were to write about a pair of shoes of yours or your character's. They can be real or symbolic.
Her shoes all dispersed in bags now, prepared to be carried off. If you were to take them out, stretch them before you, they would tell a story, a story of a woman. Brave. Vibrant. Loving life.
The slip on shoes dark but with splattered bleach marks. She worked hard outside in her white button down shirt, her bathing suit beneath. She cared for her roses, tended to the weeds, and kept her pool sparkling blue. The shoes were worn out, tired. Long hard days in the Florida sun.
Multitudes of shoes for dresses of many colors, shapes and sizes crammed into many of the bags. You could also find the costume jewelry and purses to match nearby. She used these for her meetings. Or when she went knocking on doors, ready to share with the world what she believed to be the “Truth”. Many sidewalks and miles walked. Fueled by faith and compassion.
Her sneakers, white with the purple Curves on either side. Reminders of her days in the gym, or doing the circuit of machines. Lifting. Bending. Pushing. Pulling. Never tired. Always active. She would often leave the younger crowd behind in her dust. She worked hard to stay healthy. Ate well. Exercised. Another reason why it never makes sense.
Her fancier shoes sequined and shimmering. These went with the gowns hidden deeper in the closet. Cruises had become an annual event. Her face would light up, and her eyes would match the gleam in her shoes. Dancing for hours, the last one on the floor. No one’s going to break my stride..I got to keep on dancing was one of her favorite lines.
But I bend to pick up the slippers. The last shoes worn. White with purple roses on the side. Her toes open to the world. Thick with comfort because the nerves needed to be cushioned, trying to find relief from the pain. The bottoms worn down from shuffling, not stepping. I can hear the echo of the shuffle now bouncing off the walls. I gather them up and take in the scent of Avon lotions, flowery, pungent and I can almost hear her voice..and her laughter. They are a little big for her, she wore thick socks within them, trying to keep warm. The medicines had changed a lot. They are dotted with specks of food, maybe some crumbs. And little white hairs from her best friend and protector who would lay as close to her as he could in the bed. They were well used, she refused to lie down and quit. So much of mom within these shoes.
I slip my feet in and I can feel our souls, like one. I see so much of her in me. I hear her in my words, see her reflection in my mirror. She is so far, but remains so close.
