Goody Two Shoes

When he found them, in the second hand shop, all he saw were old tennis shoes, with a few rips and tears and scratches. Salvageable, and obviously quite pretty once, he took them home, to his wife. His wife would stitch and darn and mend, and those shoes would go to his granddaughter. He didn’t see the pink flowers, faded now, but once vibrant and upbeat, with little smiley faces drawn on the by a girlish hand. He didn’t see the scuff marks due to long afternoons in the lazy days that come with the heat of July, where the girl in the sneakers jumped rope and played hopscotch. The wear on the soles from gym class, and the endless laps, when young minds go on autopilot, legs pumping up and down, eyes glaze and unfocused. The small nick near the toe inflicted by a frisky puppy, the first love of a child’s life, all fuzzy and pretty, with paws too big for its body and an adorable air of cuteness and vulnerability. A tear near the heel, from a bicycle spoke, whizzing down a road with the sun setting at the children’s backs, or perhaps from jumping a creek, cold water splashing and giggles pervading the air, or even climbing a tree, in search of victory, or a squirrel, or the ripest apples in the orchard, the flowers blooming all around, the air heavy and scented. All the wear and tear the silent witness of childhood take. The sneakers had clung loyal to maturing ankles, watching tears and laughter, and friends and enemies. The silent sorrow of the shoes as the growth of the child became more pronounced, the pink and purple flowers bulging uncomfortably. The grandfather, too busy and absentminded saw none of this. He didn’t see the shoes packed up in box, shoved to the back of a closet, while the clothes changed from Mickey Mouse and sweatshirts to low cut tops and blouses, skirts and make up. The walls filled with teen idols and pop bands. The floor littered with textbooks and binders and phone numbers. The dust gathering fast and thick on the box, on the innocence of childhood. The years spreading fast and thick like soft butter on toast, weighing down the bread, the body. Eventually though, the young girl moved from pimpled teen to young woman, to mother. And one day, cleaning out her old closet, she saw with some wonder that the shoes had weathered the years well. The old man had no way of knowing that she smiled then, looking at those relics of a past ages, running her hands down the smooth sides and picking at faded shoe laces. He hadn’t seen her wistful smile as she cleaned them up and packed them packed in their box. She’d driven down to the second hand shop, Love At Second Sight, and placed them on the register and received twelve dollars for them. He couldn’t see the attendant tag them with a price and set them up in the shop. But he was there next, picking them up and seeing potential buried under the years of gloomy closet dwelling, waiting for another little girl, another lifetime.