Ever since I moved into the farmhouse (almost exactly a year ago), there’s been a pair of shoes dangling over a telephone wire down the street. In front of St. James, the small Catholic church at the corner of Ferry (our street) and Fremont Blvd. I always looked for them when I passed underneath them, and they always cheered me up a little.
Monday morning, they weren’t there. I stopped what should have been underneath them and looked up and down the wires, turning stupidly in a circle.
Then I looked down, and saw a single, beat-up old sneaker lying in the dusty ivy that grows between the sidewalk and the street. Seeing it there was as sad as seeing the body of a dog or cat that had been hit by a car. It was gone when I walked by again on my way home.
Farewell, shoes! I admired your insouciance and you always brought a smile to my face. I’m glad I took photos to remember you by. (Although I don’t seem to have ever taken digital photos, but you can see the Instax I took of them, on the right, second from the top. I also took some with my Diana.)
I even wrote haiku about them, more than one.
Summer evening: A
pair of shoes dangles over
a telephone wire.