If Shoes Could Carry Memories

Someone once told me that you could tell what type of person someone was by their shoes. That a pair of shoes could tell you their story. 

Maybe shoes carry the memories of where they’ve been and who has worn them, and maybe Union station knows the story of each and every pair of the hundreds and thousands that have walked across its marble floors. Where they come from, where they’re going.

Maybe it knows the high school kid with the ratty old blue hightops she refuses to throw away and the red highlights in her blonde hair that are now fading to pink. Maybe it knows those are her favorite shoes ever; that she hasn’t bought new ones in four years because her feet haven’t gotten bigger, though God only knows they should have worn out years ago. That her mom has been trying to sneak them out of the closet and into the trash can every chance she gets, because she just cannot stand them anymore.

Maybe it knows that she, with her nose piercing, crop tops, and torn up low-rise skinny jeans, doesn’t come across to most people as studious even though she’s at the top of her class back home; that she’s there because she won a scholarship for a summer program at a university in D.C.. Maybe it knows that when she left her platform, she kissed a boyfriend her dad doesn’t approve of goodbye, and tried her best to put all her heart and love into it, because though she’s feeling close to tears,  crying would ruin her mascara and we couldn’t have that. Maybe it knows she’s afraid of being judged or not making friends, because she knows first hand that girls can be mean and people tend to judge first by what's on the outside. But maybe it also knows, though, that the next time she’s back walking across the marble floors, it will be accompanied by a group of now good friends; laughing and actually teary, because she’s not wearing make up this time and she doesn’t care if her faces gets all blotchy.

Maybe it knows the little boy in the green rainboots; the rain boots he uses to jump and stomp through puddles in; the boots he never remembers to wipe or take off before coming in, so he always ends up tracking leaves and dirt into his mother’s clean kitchen. Maybe it knows he bought them that color because his mom told him it made him look like a frog, and he still likes to ribbit and hop around in them occasionally, just to make her laugh. Maybe it knows he wears them now because even though it's sunny outside today,  he’d rather have them “‘just in case” than not at all and they don’t quite fit in his suitcase.

Maybe it knows that he clings to his older brother’s hand so as not to get lost in the crowd, because he’s been lost in department stores and amusement parks before and he’s not to keen to repeat the experience. Maybe it knows they stopped for lunch before catching their train because his three year old sister is hungry and wouldn’t stop crying; that he picks at the fast food from the food court and dreams of the home cooked meals his grandmother will have ready for them when they finally arrive at his grandparents house. Maybe it knows that he’ll fall asleep on the train ride; his head in his father’s lap and his brother’s sweater covering him, but that when he wakes up the next day, it will be underneath the warmth of his grandmother’s comforter, to the sound of sizzling eggs and smell of bacon in the frying pan.

Maybe it knows the woman in the wine red heels and matching lipstick who leaves the city through the station every morning and comes back every night. Maybe it knows she walks down important business offices in those shoes and has sat in many important meetings, same red lips twisted into a charming smile. Maybe it knows that that shade of red is her favorite because she thinks it make her look professional, yet daring and confident; that she loves the clip-clop sound of her heels against the marble floor, even if they give her blisters.

Maybe it knows that she’s so ambitious, she sometimes feels selfish. That she feels guilty for having to leave her toddler in someone else’s hands, for not always being around, to organize play dates and volunteer for the school, because she comes home late and exhausted from the commute every night. Maybe it knows that she tortures herself with the idea that she is a terrible parent; that she wonders daily if she should find a different job or move closer, but she can’t bear the thought of uprooting either her career or family just yet; that some nights she cries herself to sleep. But maybe it also knows that every morning she wipes away the tears and kisses her sleeping son goodbye; puts band-aids on blooming blisters and applies her lipstick before heading back down to the station.

If shoes collected memories, the stories of the people in them would continue to be written with each and every step. Constantly in movement; shifting; progressing. A new chapter being added every day.

If shoes could carry memories, what memories would yours carry? What story would it whisper to the marble floors of Union Station?

Where have you walked in them? Where are you going?

Your story is no different--it is still being written.