Red Shoes

It occurred to me, that all my childhood I was striving to be worthy of red, pointy-toed velvet shoes with the sparkling diamond clasp that remained on the top shelf of my mother's linen closet, destined for my sister's four year old feet, feet that refused to wear shoes. When the store master at the Dog Patch corner store determined my feet were squishy when seen in flip-flops one prairie summer, I longed for the power of those alluring shoes, still waiting for my sister's submission. I cradled my dripping orange Crush. It didn't matter that the impossibility of August heat kept those shoes in the dark, cool cupboard . Or that my feet were four years bigger than the shoes. My round toed brown leather Buster Brown's did not defend my honour in September, and the red tempting prize continued to perch where they would live forever. In my memory, I still climb up to touch velvet expectation. And orange Crush still comforts.