Sunday Scribblings--My Shoes

I should have known they were up to something, after sitting shoved behind suitcases and choked by loose threads and dust. My shoes aren't shy--if anything, they're puffed up, preening, gushing from the moment they wink at me in the store. I've been the same shoe size for years, so my shoes and I...we've been through a lot of living.

Until recently. My new life doesn't exactly call for a shoe collection, and for the longest time I couldn't even SEE my feet.
Like Cinderella, maybe the shoes are the first place to start. I don't need to be a stepsister--I don't need to chop bits of my feet to fit in them. But maybe I've done it anyway, and maybe that's the trouble.

They've started sneaking out of the closet lately, tripping me up in the oddest places, in the dark. Beseeching.

They're tired of it. So they're speaking out, and this is what they want to say.

___________________________________________________________________

What happened to you, girl? A year is a long time to go without the pleasures we can bring.

The swish and swirl of sari fabric, like sea mist on your bare skin, brushing against your bare toes, encased in heels that would make Cinderella stare longingly--shoes that are whimsy and imagination and myth. Romance and chiffon rise around you like incense smoke. Love sings low like the ocean’s moan. Feeling like an exotic adventuress in that foreign land, your skin.

The click on the marble floors that is confidence, echoing that you are someone; you ARE someone as they trail your story down the passageway. You walk with purpose, professional and grasping for the world. Only sensible black work pumps can cause that sway and stroll, that extra step down like an exclamation point. You ARE someone.

What about those beloved Doc Martens--the ones that proclaimed your tough girl dreams, and that made you exactly the person you wanted to be from the ankle down--artist poet rebel girl? Sometimes the words flew straight under you and over you and through you, and you needed your Docs to keep you grounded to the reality of your life--moving you from the wanting to the being.

And your sassy librarian Mary Janes, pulled hurriedly over fishnet stockings, worn with a black lace thrift store dress. Edges creased with the dust of a thousand salsa dances, the faint aroma of dance club beer splashed careless as you move. The backs lowered slightly from being eased down by each tired, tipsy foot, already dreaming of a barefoot rest.

Those go-go boots turn you into an amorous Aphrodite chick, from the moment you smooth the supple leather up your calf, holding it taut as you slide the zipper up, the gentle buzz a promise of excitement, enchantment.
Of midnight movies and the rough feel of brick against your back as you kiss dizzy in the rain, amidst pools of liquid streetlights.

Step into these old shoes again. They still fit, though you might feel blurry, distorted. They still fit, in this place and in that time. Step into us. Breathe the cooler air of inspiration and the fragrance of memory and wear the teetering coolness of strappy sandals that frame your feet like art.

A bunch of size 7 1/2s are longing to live again.

___________________

For more Sunday Scribbling fun, go here.