Tiny feet shuffle tiny paces in shoes too big.
"Keeping those warm for daddy?"
'Daddy.' I know few words, this being the first and foremost of them. I know these brightly colored things on my feet make me feel like he's with me. I know wha...
"whaaaaaaaaaaa!"
"Oh come here, did somebody trip on his shoe lac...
"...es are there so you can grip the ball better. Let's see you throw a spiral."
I look across the makeshift football field, glorified by my 10 year old imagination.
"blue 80," I call to the left, "blue 80." I repeat to the right. "hutt!"
As I drop back, using the feet cadence my father taught me, I look down the field at the man. He is wide open, having outrun mother by a good 5 yards. I heave the ball. Father seems to dive. Mother stops running. The ball lands far short, hitting the ground without once resembling a spiral.
"Father? Are you O...
"...K? You haven't said a word since you found those things?"
Sitting among the scattered memories of my past I look up at my future.
"Yeah, sorry darlin, I just never expected.. Well any of this."
"It's ok. I understand. I'm going to go downstairs. Call me if you need me."
Mother had saved these things. Father's things. These things. These shoes... They are worse for wear. Their vibrant color faded. Their humorously long laces long since gone. I wipe at the dirt and the grime but it has become as much a part of the shoe as the sole. This dirt is the soul of the shoe and so I leave it. Taking off my own shoe I slide my foot into father's. It fits. I put on the other and walk downstairs.
"Daddy, why are your shoes all dirty?" I look down at the bright blue eyes of my son and smile. I walk in my father's shoes...
Photo by John Henry. Words by Fred Watford.
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