Today makes three months since Papá and Nina went to the city, to speak to El Jefé About the missing cattle in our pasture. Papá was wearing his work boots. Today mamá told me in her soft voice, As she pulled the braids tight on my head, That we must go to the church and see if The shoes are there this time. Today the sun beats down on the hard ground, As the heat sizzles the stones and fries the grass. The church bells chime out the sounds of repentance. Nina was wearing red-buckled loafers. Today in the chapel in the stifling air, Mamá and I lumber along with the crowd. We look over at the mourners; our friends, Our neighbors. They hold handkerchiefs to their noses. Today the priest blesses those he calls “depressed in spirit”, Because they have God as their refuge. After the service, joyless young men bring in more boxes, and Discard the shoes on the waxed wooden floor. Today I scan over black loafers, tan oxfords, Brown-buckled heels; but no work boots. Some shoes are in pairs, some are matchless. Some are clean; most are not, and the crimson dirt remains. Today mamá and I inspect the shoes carefully. We notice scuff marks and scratches, pinholes and Gaping tears, torn stitching where they were once sewn together. We are relieved to not know them. No red-buckled loafers. Today outside the confines of the church There is a military truck parked, where Woeful men are unloading it at the parsonage. They are carrying heavy laden boxes. Today mamá rushes me through the streets towards home. She saw one of the boxes fall onto the ground From the man’s arms and break open. Mamá said not to look at those shoes. Comments are closed.
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Editorial Staff
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