Shoes by Helen Fremont

Shoes filled their closet like an auditorium: dozens of pairs in every conceivable color and style.  The insides were smooth and buttery brown, molded over the years to the shape of their feet.  My mother’s shoes made no sense at all, strips of color and jabs of heels, leather leftovers fashioned into footing.  Only one or two pairs looked like anything I would ever put my feet in, or trust with my weight.  Still, they were tantalizing, adornments and devices, tricks to attach to one’s toes and heels.

Published in Harvard Review, Spring 1992