Red Shoes

I am attending Festival of Words this week. Tomorrow is workshop day. The morning is poetry. The afternoon is passion. I have been instructed to arrive in the morning with a poem to work on in class. I wanted to write a performance piece about my deep loathing of homework. However, the following emerged:


Red Shoes

Del was 81 when her grown daughter of five died.

Sipping tea, Del told me that people don’t bring casseroles to a divorce.

Del was wise. She told me when I had the world figured out I could buy a pair of red shoes.

My flats were red with a band of pink across the toe. They fit the width of my feet.

Del died years ago, long before I was ready for my shoes.

She never told me about strokes.

One thought on “Red Shoes

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