My hands are cupped, quivering,
I deliver this gem to your inbox—
an invitation
to pull your eyes from shiny screens
your kid’s college acceptances
pictures of your firstborn’s firstborn
canal views from your Venice trip.
It’s not that those aren’t pretty images—
and so glittery
decorated with your pride,
but here,
I’m waving you in from the sidelines
listen well
and hear the miracle in my words,
the miracle—
She tried on shoes last Tuesday.
Two pairs!
In the store.
In the store.
I found the probable size
and we sat,
side by side
and I unlaced pink sneakers
‘til the mouth gaped wide enough.
One foot in, then the other,
and I tied.
She got up slowly,
and walked with me,
trudged up and down an aisle.
Are they tight?
Loose?
Rough?
Success was the NO
that slipped so smoothly from her lips,
butter on bread
We repeated the process
untied another pair, gray this time.
Put feet in.
Tied again
walked
talked
Are you still with me?
Still here?
Last Tuesday
I have no pictures
but it’s true, I swear,
(and I so rarely swear)—
She tried on shoes,
we even bought a pair.
Her small smile told me
she was proud.
I was,
am still,
silly happy
to be a mom
whose daughter
tried on shoes
and chose a pair.
Your eyes have glazed over
I see your finger poised to delete
having never been
one who buys ten of everything
sets a schedule–
Let’s try on one bra a day,
one pair of pants,
right shoe Monday
Tuesday left,
Having never been the one
who has a Doctorate
in Making Returns.
Breaking news here from the front
which is usually the back
or a side—
we are so invisible in your world.
