A PAIR OF WORN-OUT SHOES
They were sitting on the windowsill
in the old house.
Honey colored, rather battered,
One lace skipping an eyehole.
Still she remembered them as comfortable
which was what she now needed in a shoe.
A day or two they would still serve her
to walk along the gravel country road,
the cobblestones in town.
Now why, she asked herself,
as she put them in her bag,
had she discarded them.
And then she realized
the sole was coming off.
it had started to part ways
with its body.
She had glued them back together,
weighted down with her heaviest books,
volumes 1 and 3 of an encyclopedia,
a metaphor perhaps of her soul
weighed down with the knowledge
accumulated in her 70 odd years.
Her son, an archaeologist, was adamant.
If things have meaning, keep them.
So even though these beat-up shoes
were now beyond repair
they would go into the closet,
the closet of forgotten things.
Till one day when her soul and body
had also gone their separate ways,
someone, in cleaning out that closet,
would discover a useless pair of shoes,
perhaps wonder for a moment
why they were there,
then shrug and toss them out,
consigning them to memory.