The Little White Shoes

Wrapped carefully in white tissue paper

Hidden by the crumpled newspaper packed around tarnished silver angels

And old pictures, creased and faded

Faces I do not know

Packing peanuts, bubble wrap,

Broken parts of some old pottery

Musty papers, old notebooks

Brass swans

Batik pitcher and sugar bowl

A golden hammer

And those little white shoes,

Worn by my father so long ago

Made out of wool, soles firm and worn

Buttons marching down the tongue side by side

Those little white shoes that I so carefully packed away

And the tarnished angel

Memories of times gone by, my belongings

Belongings – yet not where I belong

Do I belong to the past, the trail of shoes and angels left behind

Must I belong with these things

I hold those shoes, in my hands

Aging, strong hands, I’ve been told

And remember my father, kind and thoughtful with artist hands

These shoes so small, so heavy

Shall I wrap them back in their tissue paper cocoon

Waiting for new flight to come

Or put them on a shelf, or perhaps back in the box

For another day, collecting the dust of neglect and memory

Or do I let them go to belong to something else

Unknown

Those little white shoes,

Do I let them take flight?

 

Janet E. Hartwick Sterk