On a shelf in the cupboard beneath 
my mother’s stairs, arranged 
by colour and laid out in pairs, 

are the shoes of her lost youth. 
A cosy cubby, of childhood days, 
of tightly curled-up hideaways. 

Inside this small stark space—all
white-washed walls and cold embrace—
old truths become unfurled. 

This six-by-four, was where I’d stay 
protected from the world outside. When 
the air became molasses, and dark clouds 

were all I’d see. It seems remarkable 
to me, that my shy, reclusive mother, 
homemaker and wife, so petrified of life, 

wore footwear such as this. I examine 
each shoe in turn. Hoping to learn 
what kind of future Mother dreamed of. 

That long-ago girl with brown suede, 
platform boots pulled up to her knees—
and flowers braided through the roots 

of wavy auburn hair. And this pair, 
rich dark denim, with darling little daisies 
embroidered down the sides. Cork-soled 

wedges, with raffia edges, sandals 
fashioned from cowhides, 
and shiny patent Mary Janes. 

I was sixteen when I felt the warmth 
that snaked between my thighs, 
pain piercing deep inside. How it felt 

to take a life. Knelt in the cubby, swathed 
in her gloom, lulled by the musical hums 
and sighs of the washing machine 

in the next room. Some stories 
we narrate alone. Women carry 
secrets to the grave that stay unknown. 

One by one I wrap the shoes 
in sixty-year-old tissue. Hide the grainy photo: 
a soldier posing with his standard issue. 

Pausing to breathe in the scent 
of her which lingers, mingled 
with the musk of age-old leather—

her voice comes to me, 
soft like a wisp of June air, 
the caress of a feather. 

Make sure that you dance now, 
before you grow old. 
Buy the shoes, and wear the dress ...

Let your you unfold. 

Bio: Nikki Fryer