Last week my mom and I were having a conversation about shoes. My mom has always been a lover of shoes. Not quite with Imelda Marcos exhuberance, but had Dad been a richer man, maybe a close rival. Because my mother has such a narrow foot, she has always had to wear very expensive shoes. Only expensive shoes come in AA with a AAAA heel. In fact, when she was growing up in a small town in Kentucky, her father had to drive all the way to Lexington to find shoes that would fit her.
My mother can wear high heels and wear them well, something I have never been able to do. I am a flats girl all the way. Her shoes are always in fashion, yet classic, and she has a zillion different colors that go with every outfit. I have a black pair, some sandals and flip flops, a pair of sneakers, and am desperately in need of something brown.
Anyway, in our conversation, my mother said she wished that with all the shoes she owned, she had some that were truly comfortable. I told her about my SAS shoes and had her try them on. Though I tightened the straps as tight as I could, they fell off her tiny feet, but she marveled at how comfortable the footbed was. I told her that I would make sure I found her a comfortable pair, a pair that would become her favorite. I was looking forward to going shopping with her, just the two of us girls together.
Then the alarm clock rang and I woke up. My mother has been dead for twenty-one years, so this, of course, was a dream. But it felt so real, and it stood out because I rarely dream about my mother. I woke up with a smile because being with her had seemed so real and felt so good. Then it made me miss her even more.