Fine Imported Shoes

When I was in my teens, I liked to window shop. I walked downtown, just a couple of blocks away from home; everything was close by in my small rural town. 

I enjoyed walking on their wide sidewalks, listening to the sound of voices and laughter, enticed by the bright lights, anxious, perhaps, to dream of nice things, to escape the dimness of my home. 

One day, passing by a shoe store, a fancy pair caught my heart.  Elegant low-heeled shoes, made with finesse...  Two demure shades of brown; in front, like a crest, a subtly shaped rectangle in sparkling bronze color, and as a sweet hug, a fine cord embraced it all with a coquettish bow. The back of the shoes was done with a solid brown luster.  

At their right side, in a diminutive silver tray, silently laid the price tag; oh, what an exorbitant price! Underneath, in coquettish cursive handwritten words “Handmade in Italy,” it read, as if giving an excuse for their high price.
 
With much care I mentioned them to my mother one day, when her heart was light. Her eyes lightened up and a semi smile curved her usually tight lips. “ Oh”.  She always measured her words, as well as everything else.   My mom, middle age, medium built, quiet like a lake on the surface, but underneath, the furor of a raging ocean.  I, therefore, measured my words and my actions.  

To my surprise, with quick movements, she changed from a faded shapeless housedress into a rose-colored blouse, a well-fitted black skirt, and a smart-looking black jacket.  High-heeled shoes in winter black were the perfect complement.  I kept thinking that as a young lady she was quite a dresser!

On the sunny side of the street, we walked in silence.  Her steps were light but secure, graceful, as if following a melody only she could hear. And I   kept thinking when she was young, she could have been quite a dancer!

However, she held her diminutive purse with force, tightly under her right arm.  As we approached the mall, her steps lost their zest.  The influx of traffic frightened her, and the changing light of the only traffic light in town surprised her, as she kept her purse closer to her chest.   

Upon reaching the store, she got very close to the window, and suddenly, her eyes sparkled in a luminosity I had never seen before; we looked at each other in sheer delight as we shared a fleeting moment of mother-daughter intimacy.

But then she saw the price tag, her eyes narrowed and her mouth, in horror, opened wide, as her usual old demeanor set in, the wall that kept our worlds apart.  I looked down, blaming myself for her distress.

Months later, days after my birthday, there was a coarsely wrapped box on the kitchen table.  With a timid smile, she signaled to me... My incomprehensible, inexplicable Mom.  

In a recess of my ten-year-old heart, I still wear those shoes, and I treasure the love that she could give.