By Olivia Moore

My mother’s shoes are shiny,

Her heels make her look taller,

It’s a shame that my feet are smaller.

Her shoes get to travel;

They go on excursions,

Big and small.

Holidays and parties,

they’ve been through it all.

They are vibrant, reds, blues,

Her shoes are for grown-ups,

I’m just a little girl, who can’t fill her shoes,

Wanting nothing more for the day to come,

When my toes,

Fit perfectly into her Danskos.

Her shoes go dancing, prancing, and leaping.

I go into her closet seeking flats, sneakers, boots.

My mother’s shoes are, elegant, calm, patient,

They never fail to fill my eyes with amazement.

My mother’s shoes are worn,

Most of them old. Each pair

Tells a different story. With all of life’s struggles,

her shoes have been with her through everything,

navigating the world. Some are in boxes,

contained and hidden. They haven’t seen light

for ten years. Her shoes are wounded, maimed in battle.

Built for harsh winters,

Buckled, zipped and tied, as a desperate

attempt to keep the memories alive,

of the good old days. My shoes are her shoes.

I am wearing her shoes now,

Her shoes are my shoes.

Her shoes contain her essence,

Bunions and all.

Oh how I miss the days when my

Feet were too small.