I kept the shoes. Not because I'll ever wear them again, but simply because my daughter told me she still has hers. And, though I could tell she was teasing, she said we'll have to wear them together one day.
Sometimes, in life, you have to let go, but sometimes, for even the silliest reasons, you have to hold on. Letting go is the hard part, especially when the memories are all good, but even when they aren't. As I reflect upon the shoes with the shiny insoles and the bright polka dots, I realize they have never caused me a bit of unhappiness, not a moment of stress. Even for the few hours I wore them one day, they did not rub, left no blisters, no gaping wounds. And always, when I catch a glimpse of them gathering dust in my closet, they remind me of that happy, impulsive shopping day with my daughter. Not only am I going to hold on to them, but I am going to hang on to those damn shoes for dear life.
Labor Day weekend is upon us, the three lazy days that, for most of us, have little to do with the labor force and everything to do with the somewhat unpleasant transition into the part of the year during which we hunker down and get down to business. It's time, for me at least, to start cleaning my closets in earnest, to relinquish any reminders of discomfort and pain and start fresh. Gone will be the too-tight jeans of my life, the outdated sweaters, even some of the comfortable old shoes. They constrict, they take up valuable space, they invade my air. Gone will be all the things that make it hard to breathe. Scary as it is, it's time to let go.
The shoes, they're staying. (I looked for my daughter's pink ones, but she's got a bit of her own closet cleaning to do, and I will leave that to her.) Who knows, I might actually slip them on one day, risk the snide glances and the snickering stares, and teeter off, unencumbered, into my next chapter.
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