Shoes that go nowhere

My parents keep a strange archive of shoes in their back porch; Mom saved one shoe from each of our pairs, as a way of tracking me and my sister’s growth. instead of marking a line on the doorframe, she measures time by the increasing distance between our heel and our toes. 

One summer holiday, my older sister Mickey and I sat on the scorching sidewalk and examined the feet of pedestrians. Mickey had theories about people's character traits and personalities based on the shoes they wore.

"Men who wear pointy shoes have a problematic personality" Mickey warned me knowingly, “stay away from them.”

“And women?” I delved deeper.

 Mickey let out a contemptuous snort: "only if the pointy shoes comes with buckles. Laces are a whole different story."

“High heels?”

“insecurity”

“Colourful laces?”

“Depends.”

“On what?” I listened intently.

“If the shoes are wide, it means that the person is desperate to be liked” Mickey explained, “but if it’s narrow, then it’s just a boring person with aspiration of coolness”.

"How do you know all that?" I marveled.

Mickey’s eyebrows smiled: ”Years of research” she said, and I looked at her with admiration.

"You're so naïve," my older sister patted my bare feet fondly. 

The distance between my heel and toes grew bigger and bigger, until the day came: my toes were far enough from my heel to get me drafted into the army.

The bus spat us into a military base which was surrounded by barbed wire fences. We were thrust into a large stuffy hall, whose narrow-barred windows nearly touched the ceiling. There was a single window which allowed us to see the outside, but it was tightly shut.

"That’s yours" The quartermaster threw a bundle of uniform towards me and disappeared behind a big counter.

"Sorry" I cleared my throat, "excuse me!" I waved at him: "These shoes are too small for me."

The quartermaster granted me a quick impatient glance: "We don’t have any larger sizes. Next!".

And the next in line was pushed in my place, and I dissolved into the next queue.

We rolled up our sleeves and had vaccines injected into our arms like drones on a conveyor belt.

In the next hall there were two officers with their lips tightly shut, their hands on their waists:

"Stand still!".

Rows of recruits froze in their place with their hands clasped behind their backs, heads up, eyes forward.

When we left the hall under constant yells of "move it!", I glimpsed at a reflection in one of the windows; I saw a group of female soldiers obediently shuffling towards the door, all wearing the same shoes so I couldn’t tell an insecure person from an overly confident type, and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t make out which one was me.

The day I was released from my service, I booked a flight to India, and purchased heavy trekking shoes.

“It might need some getting used to” the salesman said as I dragged my feet across the carpeted floor.

 “Must it be so… high up the ankle?” I couldn’t conceal my distress.

"You'll thank me," the salesman smiled: "India’s streets are paved with shit."

The first thing I did as I got on the plane was take the shoes off.

I thought: “what is the point of traveling with my legs trapped in a brace and heavy like an anchor?!”

The first sight that greeted me as I landed was that of a mother and daughter. The child, who had her legs amputated, was carried around by her bagger mom.

She wore foam finger shoes, and I remembered Mickey claiming that only arrogant people walk around with such things.

-Where is Mickey now? I chuckled when I realized that Indians who don't walk barefoot wear exactly the same toe shoes.

I entered a temple, trying my best to mingle with the locals, as a little boy stopped me, insisting that I had to leave my ridiculously expensive shoes outside.

“Why?” I asked, and the boy pointed at a sign saying: "Please take off your shoes at the entrance to the temple" in several languages.

"Okay," I took off my shoes and tied them to my backpack.

Again, that boy.

He pointed to a row of flip flops awaiting at the exit.

"For ten rupees, I'll keep them for you," he said.

"Five" I bargained, "but I’m not taking my socks off!"

The boy shrugged. I realized how ridiculous I must seem to him.

At the temple, I purchased a necklace of orange flowers, and let a little girl stamp a red dot on my forehead.

The socks stiffened with a sole-like dirt layer; a combination of mud, petals paste and other things I preferred not to delve into nor study their base ingredients up close.

When I left the temple, I found both boy and shoes had vanished. 

Months later, when my parents and my sister came to greet me at the airport, I couldn't run to them for a hug, because flip flops force slow, moderate walking.

Perhaps that is why Indians seem calm; Simply because they have no choice.

"What is it?" Mickey was the first to notice.

"I lost my shoes," I cut short the story of the loss.

"When did that happen?" asked Dad.

"Quite at the start," I admitted.

"Did you travel in India in flip-flops?" my mother was shocked: "So unhygienic..."

After I showered, I put on scented clothes and patted barefoot at home.

"What shall I do with that?" Mom waved my flip flops in disgust.

"Whatever you want". I assumed the shoe archive would grow by another pair.

In the morning, I found my foamed tattered flip flops in the garbage bag and felt a strange tightness in my throat.

I went out to the balcony and found shoes of all sizes and colours, from which a magnificent garden of ornamental flowers sprouted and bloomed.

When I wasn't around, my mother managed to grow roots into shoes that wouldn’t go anywhere.