Remember the one and only time we met in person? Your feet hurt from your wedge sandals, and you asked if I had something like white Keds you could borrow for a walk. I said I did. But when you saw they were red knockoffs, you said they didn’t go with your outfit—so you suffered on platforms, walking beside me for five blocks.

Can you keep a secret?

It begins with shoes.

When I was in kindergarten

I had a favorite pair—

white knockoff Keds

with Rudolph painted on

in cheap craft paint,

probably from a church sale.

I wore them nearly every day.

No one said anything.

Not when they were out of season,

not in the rain,

not when my toes bunched

painfully at the tips.

Then one morning

they hurt too much to wear.

We bought replacements that day.

I cried and cried.

Who could have guessed

a child would outgrow her shoes?

If an adult had intervened,

I might have worn them

just three weeks—Christmas only.

Instead, my pinky toes still curl

like lotus feet, bound

to the shape of those shoes.

And you—

like them, I loved you too long,

until the hurt made me

discard you at once.

Still, I carry you:

the spark of what once fit.

You are a pinky toe

curled in