The Lived-In Home

March 29 2019

The shoes by the door

seem unnaturally still

as if arrested mid-stride,

just as they were

when they were dropped

kicked-off

toppled on their sides.

Not regimented

in primly matched pairs

as if there was virtue in order,

but the cheerful neglect

that wordlessly says

we have our priorities straight.

You cross the threshold

and pass from the chill of dusk

to the warmth of home.

Especially in spring,

the season of sudden blizzards

and freshly thawing mud.

Where the winter boots still slump

like battle-weary soldiers,

crumpled uppers, salt-stained and scuffed,

along with gumboots and runners

laces undone.

Shoestrings soaking

in puddles of melt.

Our footwear ages

in step with us.

Hard to believe

that a thing so unique

could have come from the factory

in exactly matched pairs,

now, as idiosyncratic in their wear

as we are.

The cluttered hallway inside the front door

is an obstacle course,

the welcoming chaos

of the lived-in home.

Each pair

proclaiming its story

in its battered upper

and the wear of its tread,

from the his-and-her boots

to the toddler's sneaker

so unbearably cute.

And your favourite pair of walking shoes

in supple leather, with the cloud-like sole,

reliably resting

in a heap on the floor,

just as you left them

ready to go.