The summer wind, and
dew-covered grass, and
cold rushing river water, and
tiny gems of tumbling sand
over my toes.
Looking down and seeing
nail-polish chipped edges
of my feet
are memories of
my favorite shoes.
In the garden of my pre-school,
(despite the school rules)
it was in those shoes I learned to lose
and had to heart-wrenchingly choose
through the bruises of a world no longer black and white.
And as a child, in the park,
(even after stepping on broken glass)
it was in those shoes where I yelled yahoos & wahoos
and experimented with hairdos & curfews
with friends who sadly went down other avenues.
And as a teenager, in the passenger seat,
(perched with hot pink nail polish on the dashboard)
it was in those shoes where we talked through issues
and those unending sleeved-tissues of blues and abuse
where, within each other, we gladly found amuse.
And in college, where I lived in flip-flops,
(with a special lime-green pair for the shower)
it was in those shoes where I courageously got my first tattoo,
and cruised the night with friends and booze whose
overuse was the realization of a breakthrough.
And on that special day when I said "I do"
(my bare feet tickled a trail of rose petals)
it was in those shoes where down the aisle I cruised
and made my debut as Mrs. Nathaniel Hugh
as we celebrated our romantic, sandy rendezvous.
And on that scary and exciting due date
(hoping it wasn't another false alarm)
it was in those shoes, in stirrups, void of the views
that would deliver the news and a wave of "Woo!"s
until finally I held my beautiful little honeydew.
As life continues, and
time marches on, and
kids grow older, our
life turns to death;
over our timelines,
I look down to see my
wrinkled feet, and smile
at the memories shared
in my favorite shoes.
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