When I shot up like a weed our feet
stopped matching. Our tastes
diverged too: once I moved out
I chose Docs, clunky Mary Janes.
When you got sick your shoes
languished, replaced by scuffs
and slippers. Two days after
we buried you, your daughters
and granddaughters gathered
in your walk-in closet
for a different kind of memorial.
I chose scarves and beads,
purses and pocketbooks. Didn't
bother with your shoes, those rows
of gleaming heels in leather
and lucite: like Cinderella's
step-sisters, I would've needed
to chop my feet. But one pair
of open-toed sandals beckoned.
Against all odds they fit, but
February is winter here. They went
on a shelf in my closet to wait.
Mom, last night we shared shoes
again. Were you watching as
I walked circles around the house,
relearning how heels swing my hips
playing dress-up in my mother's
shoes, now my own?