Shoes

“Your shoes are untied,” I informed her.  She glanced down at the unconventional laces.

“Well, there’s no use tyin’ ‘em back up,” she shrugged and resumed skipping against the white-boarded fence, her dress swimming along with the light wind.

I couldn’t take my eyes off those shoes, the laces flopping about and whatnot.  She was gonna get them all muddied up or trip. 

I asked, “What if you trip?” And she chuckled as if I was making a fuss over nothing. 

“I’m not going to trip.”  She reassured me.  But I wasn’t really convinced.

As usual, her keen eyes found her a stick lying about the ground.   She picked it up, drew it against the white-boarded fence, and batted her lashes at the golden sun setting directly in front of us.  The road climbed over hill after hill until it looked like there were a million roads  none of them leading to any particular destination.  I had lost track of where my house was, but I wasn’t worried.  I was worried about those laces.

I stuck my wagging finger at her, “You’re so confident.  Well, if you trip, maybe I’ll just step aside and let you fall.”  I threatened, as if threatening would make her stubborn attitude follow my wise advice.

She simply laughed again, her stick plink-plinking against the fence.  She sounded as if she knew more about life than me.  That made me angry.  I was three months older than her, I was supposed to know more things about life.

“You’re so worried I’ll fall?”  She kicked off her shoes and sunk her stubby toes in the grass.  “Then I’ll just leave my shoes behind.”

I looked at her, then at her shoes, then back at her.  Those were her nice church shoes.

“You’re mom’s gonna throw a fit!”  I warned.  She only shrugged.

“I don’t think she’ll mind much.”  Then, out of the blue she stopped walking and seemed transfixed on that bulgy orange sun - largest I’d ever seen it - sliding behind the hills.  “Mary,” she told me, very serious now, “I think it’s time for me to go.”

I nodded in agreement, I didn’t know how far we had walked from home and it was going to be dark soon.

“Where are we?” I asked her, eyeing both sides of the winding road.  She didn‘t respond.  “Well,” I tried thinking quickly, assuming my usual leadership role, “Let’s try walking back where we came.”  I pulled her in the direction against the sun.  But she didn’t budge.

“I’m not going that way,” she spoke softly, almost forgivingly.  I didn’t understand.  We had to go soon or else we would get lost in the dark.

“The other way then?”  I suggested, but she shook her head.  I started getting very angry with her.  I shouted, “Well, how do we get home?”

At first she looked concerned, as if she didn’t understand why I was so impatient with her.  Then she turned her head slightly and smiled that silly, knowing smile.

“Here, we each have to go our own way.”  She explained kindly, cautiously, as if attempting to prevent me from arguing with her. 

I argued anyway, “It's too late for another game.  Our parents will be searching for us.” 

She continued.  “I know you’ll miss me, but I won’t be far.  You see the sun?  That’s me.  I might go away for a while, but I’ll always come back.”  For some reason, I couldn’t find the words to oppose her statement.  Somehow it made perfect sense.  She was the sun of our days.  “Here,” she held out her nice church shoes to me, “You might need ‘em.  You’ve got a long road ahead of you.” 

She smiled and I woke up in tears, my husband beside me repeating, “Mary, what’s wrong?”

But I couldn’t control myself.  I just cried and cried, more than I ever had the last twenty years.  And right outside the window, the sun peeked up over the rolling hills.