Deep-red mock-crocodile pumps, with open toes and deliciously high heels.
As a woman whose sole concern about shoes is and has long been comfort, the fact that I remember these castoffs from my mother’s closet is something I can’t fully explain. But they found their way into the dress-up box of clothes and accessories my sister Marilyn and I shared when we were small. There was also an abundance of old lace curtains–enough to make brides of us and our friend Janice when she and her parents visited. The make-believe of growing up. So simple. So fun.
The memory of those red shoes resurfaced clearly last weekend as I watched Lily try on her mother’s black rosette heels. She didn’t attempt to walk in them, perhaps because her ambulation skills are still being fine-tuned. But we could tell by her close examination, foot-in/foot-out exercise and summarizing smile that she got the picture. They were beautiful. And they belonged to her mama.
If you’re expecting a philosophic point or even a simple aha! in this post, I do apologize. There is none. Just the sweet, sentimental magic of one little girl, long grown up, watching her daughter, nicely grown up, watching her daughter, who will grow up far faster than we can imagine.
When I was attending what is now Indian Hills Community College, Richard Sharp–one of the counselors there–told me he remembered meeting my mother when he was a small boy. She would have been in her mid-20s, then–just about Kate’s age. He added he had regarded her as one of the most beautiful women in the world.
Wonder if she was wearing the red shoes?