Shrinking Souls

Yesterday, I stood looking into my closet,
trying to figure out what shoes to wear
and for the first time in months,
I saw the shoes you gave me last summer.
There they were, peeking out from behind the row of
never worn boots.
I took them out, and sat down on the edge of my bed,
holding them for a while.

Then,
I set the shoes down on the carpet,
between my feet.

I remembered the day you gave them to me.
You told me they were for traveling to the far ends of the earth
and that we would see things never
touched by human eyes.
I was so excited and when I put them on,
because they fit perfectly.

I asked you how you knew what size to get,
and you had told me that you studied every inch of my skin,
and that you knew everything about me.

I had smiled.

As I sat on the bed yesterday,
I looked down at the shoes
and tried to slide my feet into them.
I was stunned at how tight they were.
Obscenely tight.
I wondered if they ever really fit,
or if I dreamed how perfect they were,
because they were from you.

Today, as I stood in line at the bank
(cashing my ever shrinking pay check)
I noticed a young woman who looked a lot like me.
She smiled at me from the next line over
maybe noticing our similarities
(Or not.)
I looked at her figure, her clothes and then her shoes.
There they were; the same kind of shoes I had taken out of my closet yesterday.
She had the exact same pair.
I said to her, “I have that exact pair of shoes at home.”
She told me how she loved them, and that they fit perfectly.
I thought to myself, “They won’t fit like that forever.”

Shoes get tight
Even if your feet haven’t grown.