In the Absence of Shoes

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Once upon a time,

every time I came in the back door,

a jumble of shoes would greet me,

shucked off by my kids after school,

backpacks dropped in a heap,

escape, escape, 

from the day's confinements.

I used to deplore the jumble,

wondering how on earth 

to make five pairs of shoes 

(one pair each was all I could afford)

look less like a toppled mountain

and more like we lived in 

an orderly establishment.

One Christmas, 

my son wanted Doc Marten boots

which I could not afford, but

I bought them anyway, because

it was Christmas.

New Year's morning I went downstairs to find

ONE boot inside the back door. 

The other had been lost in last night's partying.

Someone had tossed it

out a car window, 

and he had risked frostbite

hopping home with only one boot

through the freezing snow.

Not our finest hour,

Who knew that one day,

I would walk in my door,

shuck off my ONE pair of shoes,

and miss that big heap of tennis shoes,

and all of the bodies they carried around

through those busy happy laughing

messy years?

inspired by the prompt at dVerse: on shoes