Shoes
- FLAPPER PRESS
- Sep 11, 2025
- 4 min read
By Yvonne Osborne:
The reporter went to the refugee camp for a story and found it huddled by the fire. The man wouldn’t make eye contact and was unable to speak, so his daughter did it for him.
They were a family of four when they set off at dusk the night before. They walked through the night to stay ahead of the soldiers and crossed over the mountain pass in the predawn cold. He buried her mother halfway down under what rocks they could find and carried his youngest on his back. He doesn’t remember at what point she became heavier. It is winter, but they are barefoot, and he is unable to speak.
One river over and a mountain range removed, another is called from her pallet at dawn. She has a bowl of curry and a cup of tea before her walk to the factory. She doesn’t need shoes; the climate is temperate.
There are guards at the gates; they have to be careful of whom they let in.
At times she daydreams, as young girls do, and slides a hand inside the leather upper of the shoe she stitches, fingers the laces, practices a bow. The sharp bark of the foreman reminds her she is there to work.
The wages are good, and she brings all of it home to her family. Jobs are plentiful, jobs for everyone.
Seven time zones away, where night is day, a young woman takes her daughter to the shoe store for her first pair of hard-soled shoes. A man with a necktie measures her foot, and she looks on with a little furrow in her brow. Her new shoes have buckles and heels that tap-tap. They’re well-made and less than her mother had expected to pay. She wants to wear them home, so he boxes up her old ones with the laces that she never learned to tie.
In the middle of rolling corn fields, this house is full of boys. Shoes block the backdoor in a pyramid of achievement, athletic footwear that promises rebounds and touchdowns. Shoes that outran the village cop and walked a girl home; shoes to throw the discus in and shoes for the long jump. Shoes that have been thrown up on, ejaculated on, and bled on. Shoes for summer jobs—baling hay, mixing cement, and painting houses. Shoes with broken laces and shoes with no laces. Shoes for all the boys who live here.
On the long drive home through a star-lit night, gripped by nostalgia, the reporter plays with the radio dial, looking for reception. Crossing through radio bands, one disc jockey passes her off to the next as mile markers flash by her side mirror to disappear into the maw of night.
She knows the latitudes and longitudes of many places. They travel with her in her glovebox, in the tread of her boots, and in the ashtray with coin, rosary, washers, and grit. On a clear night she used to be able to pick up Canada.
Hypnotized by the monotony of the road and driving on autopilot, she misses her exit. Awakened to her error by unfamiliar cliffs, ravines, and road signs, she taps her brakes and looks for the next illegal emergency vehicles only turnaround on this four-lane thoroughfare.
It’s late when she pulls into the driveway, but the yard light is on. She parks where she has always parked, and no matter her age, she is a daughter here. Someone else will get out of bed if there is a noise in the night. Someone else will take care of things.
She carries her suitcase into the bedroom she still thinks of as mine. The shades are open and can stay that way. She kicks off her shoes and throws her bag on the bed. A pair of slippers are placed toe-to-toe beside it.
She stretches her toes into the cushioned soles, and any distance traveled over winter roads was worth it. She cracks the window, lights a cigarette, and blows smoke through the screen. Beyond the pasture there runs a creek, which flows into a river that crosses the plain and enters the ocean. Currents collide, the Labrador meets the Gulfstream to merge with the Canary to circle a globe without borders.
But for now, she is home with stories to relate. She places her slippered feet on the sill, marveling at the luxury, and uncaps her pen.
Yvonne Osborne lives and writes on the family farm founded by her great-great-grandfather who broke ground with a team of horses while drinking elderberry wine. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous literary journals, including the Midwest Review, Slippery Elm Literary Journal, Great Lakes Review, and the Milkhouse Literary Magazine.
Her debut novel, Let Evening Come, was published on April 2, 2024, by Unsolicited Press and was their #1 bestseller of the year. It was also nominated for the Women’s National Book Association’s Great Group Reads.
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