Walk A Mile
Every night when he went to sleep, a new pair of shoes sat at the foot of his bed.
The first shoes were an unassuming pair of weathered brown loafers with one tassle missing. His dreams that night were of his grandfather. Sitting on the porch and watching the sunset, listening to tales from what seemed like a different world.
The next night brought a scuffed pair of sneakers. Yellow with blue piping. The dreams were of a schoolyard bully he hadn’t thought of in years. He awoke drenched in sweat and panting in youthful terror.
Yesterday was a pair of simple white pumps, their no skid soles obscured by the pale blue fabric of sterile shoe covers. The night brought visons of happiness. Cigars joyfully passed out among relatives.
Tonight the shoes are bright red and comically large. Spots and splashes of rust red and brown cover them. Tonight he will not sleep. He will sit and hope. He will pray that they are gone in the morning.