Shoes 2: Son on Sunday


An empty, dusty pair of shoes has seen nearly every step of the life of the wearer: Sunday services, basketball games, dinners at home and away, airports, bedrooms, offices, funerals, weddings, and the resting place of all shoes, the closet.  Seeing my son’s dress shoes one Sunday afternoon prompted me to reflect on the boy he was and the man he was quickly becoming.  I ached and hoped for him as the days trudged on and the years flew by.


Black dress shoes, slightly scuffed,
stand on the bedroom floor,
purposefully aligned:
size 4½.
The house is empty now;
so, the shoes.
Each once possessed
a boy—once eight—
who laughed and ran,
who sparred with wooden swords and sound effects,
who worked in the garden along side his dad.
Each once held a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy,
with a noticeable underbite,
who wanted only to please,
only to be favored
with a warm smile and a twinkling eye.
The house is silent now;
so, the shoes.
Each once held a boy.

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