I'm a middle-aged woman, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my mother's closet. She's recovering from cancer surgery and I'm in cleaning mode -- my goal for the afternoon is to organize her shoes. From the very first pair, I become a kind of shoe-ologist, focused on learning as much as I can about who she is and the road she's traveled.
I reach for one of the several black felt shoe bags tucked into the far right corner. Inside I find the princess-worthy brocade pumps I played dress up with as a child -- pretending to be glamorous -- with her gray silk blouse buttoned over my flannel nightgown, her orange lipstick dotting my lips. I am 12 years old, my feet still small enough to fit into every pair she owns -- the clickety clack of high heels audible as I parade across the wooden floors of her bedroom.
I close my eyes and can almost smell the Chanel No. 5 that once infused both her closet and her clothes. It was the scent of my mother, the scent of my childhood. Carefully placing the shoes back into the bag, I draw the string tightly, afraid to let any of our history slip away.
Other treasures from years past remain, worn when my father was still alive and her life was about being prepared for the next special event. In those days, she'd emerge from their bedroom ready for a night out, her auburn hair "done" earlier in the day at the beauty salon. Around her neck the 16-inch pearl necklace with the jeweled clasp, and on her feet over patterned pantyhose, shoes that always matched her purse that held little more than a lipstick and ruffled hankie from her mother-in-law.
Now well into her seventh decade, there is a sea of black in a variety of textures: suede, patent leather, buttery smooth leather -- not a pair scuffed or misshapen -- all with heels of an inch or less. There are mules, slings-backs, and seamless loafers. A few half boots are tossed in, gracing the top of the pile like pumpernickel croutons on a bed of romaine -- leftovers from before she and my dad moved to California -- trading in frigid East Coast winters for an endless summer. In those days, my teenage years, she'd wear bold socks with patterns that would poke over the tops, and make me pray her pants would be long enough that my friends would not notice what she considered "art."
At the back of the closet, another shoe bag reveals a pair of black espadrilles with stacked woven heels, their long sexy laces dripping out of the end of the bag -- worn for a dressy occasion no doubt, when lengthening of the leg was desired. I pause for a moment to try and determine whether they are truly retro or brand new, looking strikingly similar to a pair that I wore in the 70s with a flowing purple calf length skirt, and several silver and turquoise bracelets around my wrist. How divine I thought I was.
Side by side I place each pair, as if ordering her closet will bring equal order to our lives, helter-skelter with the news of her cancer. Moving on to the colors -- each luscious as sherbet and wonderfully feminine -- there is lime green, banana cream, Bartlett pear, peach nectar. I have not seen her in most of these, not known where she has been when she wore them, or the people she met while they graced her feet. The 18 years we've lived in separate parts of the country is evident -- these shoes and I are strangers.
Nearing the end of the pile, I find sneakers, barely used. One with a playful checkerboard pattern and one with laces, gifts from my brother and sister-in-law who thought they might inspire her to exercise.
I've heard it said that shoes offer insight into our souls. Perhaps they really offer a snapshot of our lives, our loves, and our health. As I close her closet doors, I wonder about my mothers' recovery: how long it will be till she is back on her feet and which shoes she will choose to wear along the way.
I know now we are not that different, my mother and I. We have flats and mules, a sea of black, and a dash of color. As cancer survivors, we also have a sense of what makes shoes more than a fashion statement: how they serve every day to remind us of the importance of putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward with life.
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All of my life. Her shoes---going through her things was so very difficult--she was quite a lady. Her heart was soft and pure, she never said anything bad about anyone...ah...how I loved her...she was so funny..many times we laughed until we nearly cried. I miss her more than words can say....
I send her balloons on her birthday--with a note or letter attached...I wait for the day we will be reunited.
What a glorious day that will be. I love you mama.......
I was blessed to have Mother until 4 years ago, right after her 95th birthday. It took me almost 2 months to go through everything in the home Mother and Daddy built 50 years before, and I treasure the memories. It is where they raised three children, giving us a firm foundation built on love rooted in Christian faith, like their parents before. The shoes, purses, clothes, hankies, books, saved cards, notes, and bits and pieces of their lives were woven through all of it. Occasionally I'd run across a box with 'for Joan' or one of my brothers. Inside one box for me were her wedding shoes, nightgown, wedding shower invitation, a list of gifts and notes from her Mother and Daddy's. There was a little leather 'honeymoon scrapbook' with notes of their trip to San Antonio in November, 1935.
Daddy died 25 years before, and during our long visits over the last 20+ years she shared with me her life. She and Daddy were partners in love, business, and steadfast in their dedication to God, home, family and their country. All of this is tucked inside my heart forever. I can still feel her touch, her presence and her radiating love. Though she would scoff at the idea, she was the closest thing to an angel I have ever known, and I am blessed God chose her for my Mother. She knew this and is constantly with me, still gently guiding and watching over me.
For your mother, it's shoes. For my mother, it was good-quality costume jewelry. I'm so fortunate to be able to wear much of it still, 13 years after her death from ALS. No matching shoes and purses for her. It was matching earrings and bracelet or necklace or broach. Some were understated and classic pieces. Some were purely for fun and flair! Wearing these pieces today gives me such joy, and I can still feel her presence and our connection as mother and daughter.
Reading through the comments, you've obviously touched the heartstrings that are inexplicably tied to the mother and child relationship. I've enjoyed reading all the stories that have been posted -- thanks to all who took the time to reflect and share the essence of your mother.
Melissa, you and your mother's story have touched me deeply today. I hope that her cancer recovery goes well. I'd like to share a quote with both of you, as you travel down this road together: "I've got dreams in hidden places and extra smiles for when I'm blue." ~ author unknown
Thanks, too for all the comments from everyone else......................you are helping me too.............tears and smiles...........remembering........
Happy Mothers Day, everyone.
Men wonder why we love shoes so much and you just explained it perfectly.