The Sound of Our Steps

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THE SOUND OF her steps: not the heels tapping, the feet dragging, the clogs clattering or soles shuffling on the path leading to the house, no. First the absence of steps, the creeping dread in anticipation of her arrival, her entrance, the loaded silence, measured by a twelve-minute unit of time, heralded by the next-to-last bus stopping, the 11:30 bus from which she would descend.

Our mother didn’t step, she skimmed. At great speed, in a total silence that split the balanced quiet of the street in two.

What did she put on her feet back then, which shoes, or to be more precise, how did she prepare for battle, how, with what? That sense of purpose she had, to the last detail, the sacred air of purpose, how she loved what was useful, necessary. I remember her last pair of shoes because I bought them; the earliest ones in my memory, less so.

I think she preferred shoes with laces. A bit of a heel, about two inches, no more. Maybe more, but just a bit.

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