Over the Years/Shoes

Over the years

—And I mean decades, half a century, more than half my life—

I would line up your shoes by the door,

Under the mudroom bench

Or in the closet we shared like everything else.

But in all those years, never—

Not until you were gone and I didn’t know what to do with all the shoes I had lined and placed

for you

Did I ever think of where they’d been,

How far they’d gone,

The miles and steps they got to share with you when I wasn’t there.

On the way to work.

Pushing on the brake of the car that somehow always functioned to allow you to return to me...

Til one day you didn’t.

In the fields

Or the rain,

Meeting the pavement as you ran your route,

Until you kicked them off when you reached our home.

What do I do with them now?

Do I leave them lined up?

Allowing the utter folly of thinking maybe one day you’ll be here to wear them again?

A reminder that you’re not here now?

If I throw them away,

Give them away,

Release them

Then I do so knowing I will never again place them reflexively, lovingly

For you.

And how do I cope with that?

How do I cope knowing you walked and ran and lived so many miles and steps and grounds I

didn’t get to share with you while you were here?

Maybe the shoes can teach me something?

Take me where you once were?

I don’t need someone to line my shoes anymore.

I barely leave the house,

And when I do I wear the same shoes that I always place next to yours,

Because at least I can see the two returned together again and again and again

And then I crawl into the bed,

Emptier than before.

This is now,

But the thought of lining your shoes,

Dutifully in my dreams,

Takes me back to a shared

Then.