Here are Margo's slippers. I took the picture the last time I was alone in my grandparent's house, shortly after grandpa's funeral. My aunt and uncle were kind enough to give me about a half hour to look through the house. I pulled my camera out of my purse and started taking pictures of every object that I thought might mean something to me.
I spotted the slippers at their usual place near the kitchen door. They had been there since my grandmother had died sixteen months earlier. Her clothes, shoes and most of her possessions had been given away within days of her funeral, but for some reason, the slippers had escaped notice. I wonder whether they might have been a source of comfort to my grandfather. Perhaps he liked to sit in the kitchen and let himself believe that Margo was about to come through the front door, remove her street shoes and put her slippers on, as she always did when she was indoors.
The housekeeper hand't thrown them away.
The slippers were almost new. Margo hadn't had time to flatten the back. Then again, she no longer walked as much as she once had. She used to roam the house, making a distinct "thump-thump" noise with her heel whenever she moved. And she moved a lot, fetching the soup pot from the outdoor pantry, filling her iron with water, opening the windows to air the bedroom, climbing up to the bedrooms, down the basement, and from room to room as she completed her cycle of chores. Back when I was in sixth grade, the noise of her feet annoyed me.
"Why can't you lift your feet off the floor when you walk for God's sake?" I accused her one day.
She had shrugged.
"What are you talking about?" she said. "There's nothing wrong with my feet."
She wasn't about to be budge for a twelve year old.
I wished I had taped the sound of her feet on the tiled floor. Heck, I wished I had taped the sound of her voice. It's been two years. I can remember the "thump-thump" noise but I have trouble bringing back her voice. Where did it go? What part of me holds that memory?
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