Sunday Scribblings: My Shoes

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When she was four, she discovered that if she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she could create a sound that resembled a footstep. Rapid, high pitched clicking, like water dripping, made her think of a lady in a gauzy dress and high heels, running through a parking garage. Less intense plopping created a clomping sound--heavy, rubber-soled shoes--the shadowed man who was chasing the delicate woman. There was no in-between click--no sturdy loafer or double-knotted sneaker.

Good shoes were a priority, but they never seemed to fit right. Shiney, patent-leather shoes, coveted because they looked like the ones that Dorothy poached in The Wizard of Oz, were a size too small. Suede pumps from her mother's younger days, made a pleasing snap against the marble hearth during dress-up, but were many sizes too big. Wader boots, ideal for stamping in ditches while scooping tadpoles, were a good size, yet tight in their damp, rubbery, rain forest humidity.

When she was grown, she relinquished shoes for handbags, though she still appreciated the protection of a good pair of flip flops, the vine-like beauty of a clingy espadrille, the heavenly lift of a wedge. And still, however, she appreciated the sound that her tongue made when she popped it the top of her mouth, and she daydreamed about the woman running in glassy stiletto shoes, who, this time, was no longer the one being chased.