To My Teenage Son (Your Little Shoe)

I was cleaning things in the garage the other day. Getting rid of things, organizing. You walked in, huge now, about as tall as me. Your hair style, your pants, they all matter to you now. You were looking cool before heading out to meet your friends.

I saw you pick up one of your old little shoes, many years gone now from your little foot that use to fill it. It wasn’t your object of interest. You picked it up and tossed it onto the dingy garage floor on the way to something else. You didn’t even think of little you that used to fill the shoes. But I did.

I thought about the little boy who took 700,000 steps within those shoes until they could contain you no more. I saw the tattered laces, impossibly broken and brown. I saw the scuffs and thought of all the countless encounters you had that caused them. I thought of all the fleeting breezes you kicked up from within them while you smiled and pointed. I thought of all the sand you moved. I thought of how they carried you through conversations with friends who are now on and off your palate. Some still around, some gone and troubled, some heartbroken, some shining now from far away.

I remembered all the mornings I helped you tie them and rushed you out the door into the car without near enough care for your little toes growing inside them. I saw the shoes that carried you when I, for many reasons, could not. I was a little sad when I saw them, but mostly I was proud of you. Because I knew  that they walked a good path, always in step with your heart.